Spiked heads upon the spears
Observe, lifeless, a finished world.
Opaque eyes, drowned
In darkness.

If one had to narrate the hecatomb,
I would say not to pray, not to despair.
As if it were possible to foresee
That in the end,
There would be no pain,
There would be no weeping,
There would be no way.

It would be slow,
One day after another,
Calmly.
One less
Would cease to be.

If one had to narrate the hecatomb,
I would say not to pray, not to despair.
As if it were possible to foresee
That in the end,
There would be no pain,
There would be no weeping,
There would be no way.

The ultimate peace
Doesn't come from death,
It comes from not being born.
Like a seed
Suspended, waiting for a soul
To grant it the Divine Torch:
The simplicity of rotting.

If one had to narrate the hecatomb,
I would say not to pray, not to despair.
As if it were possible to foresee
That in the end,
There would be no pain,
There would be no weeping,
There would be no way.

While you search for light,
The numbness spreads.
Your existence invests
Vain effort in a surreal
Battle
Against the pain,
The discomfort,
A wounded feeling.
That only those who surrender
Find, by letting go,
The illusion of meaning.

Devir

Artificial Nausea