Sin Of Apostle

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 naïve plastic diamonds,

Behind long sweaty fingers.

You will cut your arms and legs not to falter,

You will sew your bodies together with (infected) needles,

Looked at by astute watchers,

Naked men, coming from foreign villages.

You will be willing to give up your soul

To be able to still

Hear

The tinkling of a coin,

You will be ready to confess repulsive sins,

To receive the acquittal of the old wayfarer.

But the road to forgiveness goes

Through trails too steep for those that

Do not have any dignity left.

Legs of worthless people will putrefy with their rotten souls.

Dream of the present, oh passengers,

Unbounded pride.

Puppets with a polished smile

And interiors made of straw,

The old dry bones will painfully break

And an out-of-tune choir will sing.