Her body was
a temple.
Ancient and abandoned,
so charming that
it was cursed.
The walls kept lost battles
led by the hands of
a thousand men and
five hundred women,
narrated with the most
hoarse and withered voice,
unable to express with words
or verses the misfortune that
in those stories happened.
Monks and false prophets preached
under the skylight light;
the words of Judas proclaimed
the walls with nails so silent
and grieving as the promises and
unfulfilled yearnings.
Gypsies and thugs looked
for shelter of a reality
that could not be,
with rosaries worn by the tears
of the fallen angels and torn coins
in hands full of lifeless blood.
Travelers with broken compasses
and maps without
destination,
following the craters of a
concrete moon
and naming stars who had not yet
fulfilled their majority of age;
looking for a place where
they can shout that the corners
of the world can be folded though
the Earth is round.
Lovers looking for a nest where
they can write poems
with the tongue,
where they can be the paradox
and the antonyms of
the complex,
where there was no need to
consume the watches to be
loved untimely.
Gods of the Chaos and
the Peace looking for
a place where
they born twins and
fall in love with a mere mortal
with white flags and wars contained
in jars full of shadows and
monsters with no face.
Nothing was easier than to let
her heart take control of her head
and fall in love with the destruction,
the chaos and its theory,
Because any war is a revolution
and she was a grenade.
Her body was a temple,
so broken and
exhausted that even her golden cracks
could not avoid an eviction order.
There was only wandering,
swinging in the clouds
and walk next to the souls
without purpose, whose threads
had been cut as request of some
capricious God;
to go deeper into the forest,
where every look loses sense
and the words no longer dance
to have meaning.
You will find her there,
sleeping at the bottom of the
stairscase to heaven.
