Pronounce the sentence.
I am ready.
I already filled the anual fee
of shadow and complaining
in sore poetry
and opera soup in a bard voice.
I will open my arms
as a little god
given himself to be sacrificed
and I will say that the destiny
made me a puppet of the world.
That my time has not come yet,
that I arrived too early.
That a stinking jury
pissed on the exquisite
ravings of the Orphean
shadow.
That they burned the good taste
and the original torch
into the sewer of most
aberrant and incestous cliché
of the money and bastard glory.
Over me,
over me you all dogs hungry
for blood and sand;
look at me at my last gasp on the bull-ring
and burst into applause
and scatter flowers
into the blood
festering in boiling
by lyricism and crying.
I am ready.
Don't you see my feather
sinking down in the quagmire
of the minstrel curse?
Don't you see my chest opened
to the poisoned and blind stings?
I will take every thorn,
every drop poured out,
and I will write
for the perfect Hyperboreans:
"Here lies the one who spitted verses
beyond his time,
for hearings opened to the posterity
and eyes put onto the future."
Pronounce the sentence.
Who cares.
Even the most fragrant shit
becomes a flower
at the end of times.
