Niente per dire

Nothing is left to say, although we´ve told us nothing; nothing to visit, here isn´t a beach, or a fortress, or the wisper of the hungry sea. These things don´t exist. It was never real. Nothing is a sacred truth. Except maybe this slow suffering, this rotten heart, full of worms and winds of diverse colors and flavors, eating each other, until the end of muffle beats, and broken thoughts. A little twisty and crude was my life, always with a taste of death mixed with hope. A dead hope,a hope of death. Nothing else for say, just maybe, (and this is a secret) my scar still hurts.