I know that sometimes which I write kills me and other times, on the contrary, it treats my wounds. But what to do if I only trace the scrawls that my eyes draw in my mind in the nights alone, when I see that lady called Earth from my window.
And how not to talk about so sad young lady with green eyes that she dances forever under startights, pretty lady who makes me an idiot, in front of her dress of thorns which slows down walking on her body and they scratch bare feet in her withered bed. Death covers her among colorful papers and suffocates in burning seas because of the black colour that dyes the heart.
Ripped her green ribs in the sun, hungry predatories comes to the celebration; vultures that dig in her entrails looking for the addictive golden blood that escapes of her arteries, feed their bodies with shiny guts and overwight because of their metallic bones fly to the other ladies to the gut.
The lady cries acid tears that wet to the virus which live in her soul, that in fratricide slaughter, parasites fight for the already wounded heart of the green lady.