A black flower rots in your belly,

It grew up in the darkness and in the shadow,

in the silence next to the bed.


The light that made the birth of sterile flowers

is the blind nature of the mortal consciousness.


Sadly dull green fields,

bloom at the eye's windows.


A glow of light illuminates the ghostly face,

fragments of delirium in the grimly sky,

You think you get up from the dead,

not to fall to the ground like dust,

not to break the wings into insignificant, endless, glass offal.


The fate manifests bloody intentions,

It is to reap gall and to cause fortified wounds over time,

to squirm memories in the web.


Coldly distant from the words,

It's coming  to impose the excruciating pain,

who knows no death.