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Only to them was given the gift to plow the flesh that spread out all over the earth, with the implacable iron of their thoughts... and yawn before the ephemeral harvest of their rotten desires.
Gloomy workmen of the most sinister prophecies, those that sow hunger in the imagination to know what will bloom beyond the end, and the dark decision to journey toward that end.
Some of them, are patient prisoners of the paradise's light; projected through the fragile consciences in spiral of blood, held by pillars of dying flesh. Skillful and quiet, they avoid the enervated souls of the light: shallow essences, that get satisfied with any paradise; and fear any hell. Determined, they are not afraid to drain their inner cup, and lost themselves in the rapture of their being.
Burning souls whose destiny is to enlighten our abyss. Physical manifestations of the splendors of the iron ages. Aware that the physical universe is a dream chewed by an infinite crunch of teeth, they rock the cradle of our being, times after times, in the secrets of perdition.
Lugubrious Apostles, let us to extinguish the thirsty lust of our imagination with the sweat of the ashes that hold the corpse of the faith... the faith of the crowd. That our Ark of the Covenant be a sepulcher, where return to the dust: the men; their gods and their domestic demons; their future; their fears; their sanity... the memory of their Nothingness and the oblivion of their Absolute!
A solemn sepulcher, that behold the horizon from where will arise those that will carry to the end the horrible gospel. Those, that just like us, ages after ages, will tinge the light with blood.
This prose poem belongs to the book: "Bottomless Tombs".
