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martes, 20 de marzo de 2012

On the table 3


On the table 3

The broken glasses
The spotty hands
On the carpet
With a clouded vision.

The voices wanting to arise
Or drown voices wishing to get out
Asphyxiating the other persons
During the dawn out of time.

A drum of death
With deep beats
Producing the walls spinning
Opening the bottomless ground.

For not fighting
For not enduring
Like a steel blade
With closed eyes in front of the air.

The end of a generation
The deviated rhythm
Searching for the murk
From which it doesn’t come but goes for it.

With expressions of desperate persons
Examining the perceptions
Like a blind man who by guessing
Wants to reach the altar of an unknown temple.

The yielding of the flesh
The fatigue deployed
 The mouth contained with the arm
The dream broken in a thousand pieces

Painting quiet colors
That is painful for the one who spread
As they hurt to the canvas
That defenseless receives the weight of the work.

So that the act can be a fact
And complied its importance
And then it can be dismissed
If you reach to feel what is needed .