Wounds to the Wind

Bastard they are called me,

and they have forcefully punished me;

very hurt, desolate, all broken

I have been buried under his feet.

Narrow Anima , heart of dry almond,

the sky has turned over for no reason;

darkness of icicles under the field,

I want revenge with tender words.

Push my body already worthless,

when there is no longer the sigh of any mention;

baptize it into pure fertilizer, engulf my element and upkeep my origin,

make fun without trouble who your fruit dares to trample.

Pact coming to its course, coppery and green,

the rhizome invigorates, realizes plot to spare and scatter; my ends widen become hardened, the tissue is broken telling my story;

lipid, protid and starch sprouts from the nucleus.

Chunky trunk, jungle skein of recent fruit, my wounds the wind were exposed; fresh annex that I exhibit intuition,

to grow is to live and live is to suffer; without any of them we can exist.

Love breaks the substance and with it we practice to rest under water,

to surrow without a band, raze fortresses of sábula and vice versa;

with him we only learn to annihilate, to kill the feeling, the same one that I buried and to a soul I entrusted my skin and the cycle of life made me decipher.

Chimera of igneous coal, to these barbarian beings, I, to their offspring, give chewing;

I also give them shelter,

to sprout a source of experience, and that fruits on their heads may fall and wisdom can enter into them.