the clay runs down on my black hands looking for dirt
water will always return to azure
accompanied by drums in the night of the shining dead
a roar comes from the walls as they spit bullets
what penetrates flesh stops in the icy blanket of the soul
the doll has already disappeared, a long time ago, somewhere, in another reality
a search in vane for my skin
silver has burned the last drop of green hope
falling into the abyss is just a prelude for the immortal stories
the schizophrenic have missions that turn the tide around
we stole the phoenix’s wings
to fly with them over the rainbow and to spit flames
fire balls howling in an empire of cold stars
going out in a horrible light of purity that kills illusion
genies transform in peaks of smoke
moaning desperately
humans set them free at last, towards the forgotten ocean of shadows
I shout
before the tree crosses bent for desire
let us stop the slaughter until it’s not to late
the lesson of the wax figures must be understood by those too confident
the old shuar from inside the heart of the mountain used to say:
“the tiger always lurks for your nape”…