The Man Of The Log

Now you are hung of the infamous log, you are injuriado and you mistreated. I cannot see your eyes, because you raise the head towards the sky What ingenuously you look for? A cloud happens, a flock of crows. Somebody picks up the flight of its mantle and returns to the tired city. Behind himself it leaves a dust sign. The hill where they have lead to you is barren and gray. Some men murmur while your body is nailed in the cross. They seem to be after a linen cloth. The soldiers hold affirm their lances against the ground, while populacho takes roots in the esplanade and he laughs of you, yes, of you.

Your dark face descends now on the chest. A fog ring fits your front bored by the thorns. The blood coagulates in your beard and it slides like a viper by your body. A fly hums near your eyes. You can see it? What thought of repentance will cross raudo and inasible by your head? What vision of infamia shakes to you while you hurt the air with your voice terrible? What invisible end sinks in your trembly meat until finding your heart? You hallucinate, you cry out by the presence of the emissaries of the fire, by the telluric forces of your nonexistent sky.

I can escucharte call to the espantajos that bury their diamond hooks on rocks made bristle on the mount where you vanish. You think that crowd of down has mercy by you there? Perhaps you imagine that they will rise against the empire to prevent your death? You cannot moverte, the nails perforate your meat they grasp and you to the log. The blood continues emanating with slowness and leaves on your skin a map of cloudy irises. No longer it will flow when your heart, exhausted, pauses. In your anointed head your front are fine sprats tearing.