Grandfather

You will pay, pay and pay, Provident sadist you have to see How things are paid for That the will of God someday, For my wounds Will have to do, Just cauterizing work, I do not add anxiety, know it well But more fire to your pot, The one that hell repairs you burning, Because forget that death Officiates in a cloak of amnesia, To all your flaying cruelties. Death, death is the big door, Where all your baseness will be collected, Of suffocating and desolating entity. Better, better simply prepare yourself, Because you are soon to touch its wood, Its iron, of what hell wanted, For austere material for its form, But know that that matters little, It is a detail, just, go, go and touch, Because I cannot avoid the party of seeing your soul, Burn in purifying reason. Now the reaper is set upon and rapacious, Watching you, delighting you, coveting you Like me with the baggage of a childhood Of black and terrifying shadow, For that so pernicious mark of your malice, That like the cattle, on harmless flesh, In bright red, (or dead red? ) Your imprint was quickly engraved… The mark, that of the trident, the one that identifies you, In which you left a mark, to delve perversely In the one that gave you a second wedding, In the innocents who engendered it. And you were in it, the second stone that stumbling Left the great rock of Gibraltar like a boulder, You left death, which is still warm, you opened a grave, That of a mother, mine, with your malice So deplorable, so oppressive and pernicious, And they say that God exists? Let him present himself! I want you to know that I want to see him and believe in power, That he puts a heavy weight on your hours… Those that weakening you, just as you did to me yesterday, Will give me peace, the one I need quickly, Because in naming you a whole life in my memory, So lacerated!, it contorts it with pure fright, Those that remain for you to suffer as proud penance, And just the one you will have from earth until delivery, Of that demonic pigsty of rough carcass, That instead of a soul keeps vermin more detestable and corrosive than those of Pandora. And that is why if a mob accuses me, inquisitor, Of ​​the damned stupidity of resentment and stoning. It will be because in the dictionary of the flesh The meaning of wound was not written by your pen of poisoned dye that cuts so much. Because the cheap and nosy tongue, When judging has no history of that which it pierces. They only support themselves with your image of a good old man. How well your hypocritical cynicism invents, That is why the human race, if it defends you, Matters little to me, because you will be able to see that I am occupied with things of greater pleasure, such as shoveling your deep grave.


This was written by the love of my life, my heaven, my angel... Tamara, she dedicated it to me