The Eternal Pest

"[...] for they do not know what they are doing."

Blessed are the dead; for the cosmos treasures terrible pests for the withered oaks and their false virtues.
Blessed are the dead after the touch of the shadow, who dream in the vigor of the living; for close would be the suction-cups of the wine and joy towards the wretched that in mirrors of ebony their owls and spirits will have been lost. Blessed are the dead of the plague, whose powers corroded by darkness were broken in the most terrible pit; for the shadow, once they find these gothic graphs of a time without a name in a region collapsed by the pandemic, will have hovered its wings over the men who generated it.