top of page

We Who End

In your whirlwinds of arrogance I pity you,

servile birds of a thousand white feathers,

I, who know you too well.

Where are the days were being messengers was enough?

Today, your pure sight make hearts explode and

the profanity of your silence pours us into the Abyss.


You have been spoiled for enough ages,

I’m fed up with your whispers in the air and your screams in the craters;

you have been here since the dawn of the Origin,

narcissists for loving your own beauty


In Death our essence slips away in a whisper,

leaving a sickening stench as our only legacy.

Nothing has been created that can hold us here,

nothing is truly ours.


Smiles and tears fade away from our withering face,

we end up being a cradle for worms, mattress of rotten wood.
If we swallow some of the black soil we would be feeding of what we were.

How could you understand that, you values of infinite permanence?


From the most humble sprout a pillar will be born that will survive us,

the mute stones guard a categorical supremacy over us.

Only we are like the wind in his path,

only we die every dawn.


The mirror gives us each time an atrocious spectacle,

we are never the same before him. Heraclitus was not wrong.

If we have better memory, we would feel strange about who we were.

Who has dared to think that we truly Are?


The rest… has never been ours.

bottom of page