What is a hundred years when the anthems
of victorious and condemned ones are tolled
with the same merciless chords
of the eternal return of the eternal progress.
When the streets smell like the same rottenness
of bars and whorehouses
in nights where are still resounding the laments of abandonment
and madness.
A hundred years inside the same globe
infested by virus and parasites willing to spread out
through the whole galaxy to reach some port
crowded by hugs and farewells
without a certain destiny but the drive of a desire
or the hope of a death.
Century after century redoubling the echoes
and the horror of swords falling upon fields,
mowing ears and slicing cries.
The brandished steel, overflowing of bleeding conquests
and devastating oblivions.
The howling in the rust of its scythe still remains intact,
the woodworm of time has not faded the thirst
of its outrageous dreams.
What is a hundred years for the embers of a fire
never extinguished,
as a plague spread after misery and grief
it festers like the pustule after the torpor and sex.
It drives away the kisses dyed by flowers and smiles,
it pulls apart the crystalline waters tied
in the warmest embrace of a rising Spring,
it fades the promises braided under the whisper of an eucalyptus
in an afternoon where the sun shines at the end
of a road or a cinematic curtain.
What is a hundred years
when the whiff of your mouth still resounds,
seedy minstrel, swollen
by truths and lies,
pleasures and pains,
words and silences,
heaped of the same nausea,
so fresh after a long night of tender stenches
as a moaning bellow.
The misogyny served on verbs of abjection,
the male chauvinism thrown up in drooling adjectives,
the irreverence lecherous as a tattered coitus,
the condemn of indecency dressed by the silk
of hypocrisy so liberal that it is unable to be freed
from the stink of its own moralizing.
A hundred years, Charles,
what is a hundred years.
