There are blows in life, so harsh... I don't know!
Blows like God's wrath; like before them,
the backwash of all that has been suffered
was embedded in the soul... I don't know!
They are few; but they are... They open dark trenches
In the wildest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps, they will be the colts of barbaric Atilas;
or the black heralds that Death sends our way.
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adorable faith that Destiny blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitations
of some bread that gets burned on the doors of our oven.
And man... Poor... poor! He turns his eyes, like
when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his crazy eyes, and all that has been lived
gets embedded, like a puddle of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so harsh... I don't know!