There it is a beautiful and very stretched, very decorated leather, with Chemist and Avon, perfect form that it deceives and that attracts; that it hits the greed and it wakes up the occult desire. There it is the pearl, precious of many glances, that not even they suspect of terrible mistake, that it hides the devil in the gentile forms, the red tridents, the claws sharpened by the lipsticks, for the ways and summary clothes, or the very subtle forms, the allusions, the suggestions, everything to do with a hell that grows without the wickedness, with all the wickedness that the innocent ones cannot see.
There it is, the stone done of the stones, a lot of stones, put one to one, in an erect road, to draw things, to get up empires, that reign in the precious feelings, that if they turned stones, beautiful stones, painted, built by the innocence that is sacrificed by the own hands.
There it is, the scythe, the balcony, the suitcase, the mouth professing the death easily some, and refusing to accept the fault, throwing stones, pulling triggers, emitting jets of poisonous thoughts, and making jets of blood and rage.
There it is, above any suspects, queen of the third war, the cold war, the cold of the ice that freezes the people's heart, that torments day and night, innocent, calm, treacherous, creating roots in a lot of directions, filling up of astonishment the empty dawn, the hospitals of the desperate screams, and happy doctors that has a work, nurses, gravediggers, mortuaries. There it is her overflowing laughs, crying cries that fall among overflowing laughs, happy and sad, when they knock down spider's webs, makes the plots.
And the world persists, and the life persists, and the calves continue a created destiny there is through the times, really in directions that repeat until that one day, a last awakening, it just transforms the throat of the infant in a well that vomits what is it can swallow himself and the teeth chew things that build, there inside of the cruel sewages, small fascinated by a life that deserves to be lived; empires that deserve to be meditated, among moons that really light up.
The fire is beautiful, but it has its beautiful nature, its burning is necessary, different the amenity of the autumn mornings.
The illusion that makes the need to bloom of to see besides the forms and to recognize the horror or the beauty besides the first impressions.