jueves, 19 de enero de 2012


Sons of parish
sons of world
sons of mad men
sons of the bright shiny star that glows up in heaven just to make us thing we could ever have something to do with them.

Sons of the lust
sons of the fame
sons of the drugs,
of the poetry,
of the verse.

Sons of the dust
on the streets
of the killing games
of the alleyways
of the hymen raped
on the rough floor
of a wet and cold corner.

Sons of the tests
of blood
looking for reference,
for hope, for rest,
in the difference
between life and death
In crowded laboratories
in robot's brain,
in movile phoning or hiding our natural beautifull instincts that save us from the darkness of everyday.

Sons of the world
of the seasons changed,
sons of the god
of the beast in rage.
of conflict
of race,
sons of aims and wars and orders and black trench dug in the core of the Earth.

Sons of the bit universe
of the satellites
of the X-rays,
of the allienation from computer's voice.

Of mothers eyes
of a lover's chest.
of heat
on the other side of the steamed up window that does not let you see the storm that everynight comes closer when you don´t look at.

Sons of the fade
sons of this world
sons of the day
it will never come back.

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