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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2002-12-27 | [This text should be read in romana] |
The skies who fell apart,
are the holes who started the beatings back in our heart... We're all children of the same death wretched desciples of the same faith fading and growing so great with our post mortem dreaming, We are the same blade grown wild of the same stubbing knife killing the innocence in the child and the child in the womb of life, we are the same eyes selling deceit, the same mouth selling the lips, putting on the market the weep and in the stores the sweetness grown in the kiss, we are the crows who grow far away on that stairs leading to nowhere, the unwritten laws and the unwritten signs warning "beware", we are the cute bulldogs ogres of the modernist cultures, we are the victims of democracy with the killing instinct deepen in the claws of the vultures, we are the drugs, the effect, the logs in the journal acknowledged post mortem, the wax figures sculpted by gods in the simplicity of the bones of dead soldiers, we are the smiles in the backs of the head, and the howling risen to the wings as the feathers, we are the friends of the friends of our friends So as we are the taste of the kill in the mind of the predators, we are the tyrants under the skin of the sheep the dictators of the grin disappointment, the ecstasy of Seth hidden deep within the slim facade of our invisible torment, we are the angels, daughters and sons of the twilight, the strangers among strangers, the nightmare standing still on the bed side, we are the loved ones and the hated ones by the snowflakes into the winter, the naked ones blurring our crimes just as we pull away from our fingers a splinter, we are the messiahs of lust, and the skeletons of the chain of evolution, the ones you can put you life in their palm, the ones you can trust, the pile, in the matter of state of every non born yet institution, we are the children of Christ and the nephews of the more popular Antichrist, We are the break on the dawning, we are a piece of heaven very well sliced, dressed in the clothes belonging to the gods of the mourning, we are the files with the "classified" tag thrown in some corner of illusion, far away on some cloud in some galaxy dressed in a number, bearing the surname of "constitution", we are the ones that never ceased to exist, on the peak of some arrow, the grasp filled with hate of some fist, We are the children you, the one with no name and no face, you can barrow...
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