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Silence of the Gospel We sleep with red angels who show us the desert without tiny ones and without the sweet, desolate awakenings. We sleep. A wing breaks us, escape, we have wheels older than the feathers flown, lost, to explore the cemeteries of slowness, the only lust. The bottle that we surround with the lines of our wounds cannot resist any desire. Let us take the hearts, the brains, the muscles of rage, take the invisible flowers of pale young girls and knotted children, take the hand of memory, let us close the eyes of remembrance, a theory of trees delivered by thieves strikes us and divides us, all the pieces are good. Who will put them back together: terror, suffering or disgust? Let us sleep, my brothers. The inexplicable chapter has become incomprehensible. Giants pass by, exhaling giant complaints, complaints like the dawn wants to push, the dawn that can no longer complain, after all this time, my brothers, after all this time.
