The world has been a fiction. There will be so no burlesque indulgence. The firings will sound at the top of the night. The bodies will fall on stones. The men will approach the fallen ones. Convulsos, two will receive grace shots. The bones of the skull will jump next to the brains and the dark blood, will leave a spot in the rustic wall. I do not know why I will then remember Sfocles.
It will be the beginning of the delirium and the end of the reason. Steps further on, will be a grave. They will force to send deads to us to the hole and to cover them with earth. I will slip and by instinct I will support my openhanded been in the face of one of the streamlinings. I will not have already pain nor tears. My lips droughts will let slip a saliva thread.
They will not take in striking to me again and, next to the others, taking me to the dark redoubts of the shed. Everything has to repeat itself. We will return to be run over by the boots, the butts, the insults and the sudden lights. Somebody will succumb unpublished before a bayonet. The imagination will provide other ways to them of torture. They will fill our earth mouths they will sew and them with synthetic threads. They will tear our skin with razors and the wounds will be washed with acid. With tweezers they will take our eyelids. Strap will fracture the vertebrae of the necks. They will nail knives in Las Palmas of the hands placed on a table. They will take the teeth with tweezers and accurate blows. They will cut the languages with scissors like the bifid appendices of the serpents. The morning will arrive dyed from purple. The wind will remain hidden between the hollows of the trees. When abrir the inner doors of the large cabin a corrosive vapor will flood his noses. It will return the cycle to his starting phases and the wheel of the life and the death will turn and turn. Then, the snow of the irises will shine on corpses and on the glass of the trees the birds will sing indifferent. Original author and source of the article.