Here comes the maroon thundercloud: the turmoil revives, the explosions resurrect.
It resurrects, it revives, that waxen face which stole my breath away.
It revives, it comes back, that glacial, remorseless stare that chilled me to the marrow.
That paralysing dread, that perturbing stench.
Why is there so much morbid fascination and repulsion with death?
They are not bleeding, they are not dying just for your attention. But we keep on looking, with that morbid, repulsive expression drawn on our faces.
And what will my death be like? Will those shameless eyes stare avidly at my decomposed body once they took me out of the river? Will they dare to keep their eyes on my crushed head on the road?
How much violence do we have to confront?
Why can't I prevent myself from looking at these dead bodies?
How long will this grief last vivid on my memory?
How many distressing nights will those wraiths visit me?
How can I get rid of these corrosive acids so they don't make me feel sick anymore, this metallic taste so it ceases to choke me, these desolated tears, these faithless prayers, this anguish meant to be my uncertain life?
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