---

How small we are, the the sons of Orion,

and how cruel are the chemical ghosts

who oblige us to walk this way, looking

at such as collosal, images of death.

I can hear whispers over the heights,

they are litanies cyclicaly oficiated

endlessly for the souls eternity
and they sound like a hum of the sun.

I can barely walk, I’m not so old after all,

But I carry that heavy bagagge that all

the dead are dragging, that just take
up a few memories, inside our minds.

I can hear whispers over the heights,

they are litanies cyclicaly oficiated

endlessly for the souls eternity
and they sound like a hum of the sun.

They will be the only ones who will listen you,

not God.
Yes, pray restlessly, you make me laugh!

Who will hear such a decrepit and mummyfied

bony corpses which maximum

movement is inclination?

I want to own your belongings
and you want to snach my possesions.
I have the only light, you have the pendulum

that will mark the pass of time of my not-being.

How sublime is unexistence

seen from a human dimension.