On tiptoes, with the passing of the old wayfarer,
Whose tongue is damned, choking in the foul salty blood,

To run after the cart which is consumed on coarse
Bifurcated tongues, between squares full of
Animals and dark alleys (without a destination);
Dressed in glass
To shine to a weak sun
Of battered iron, you will soon become
Naked

And your flesh will be soaked with the most elegant red,
That one which is more deep.
The man who sells humans will tighten ropes around your feet
Let's confess your sin.

Sparkling, speechless and na