He, who hangs on a tree,
the same tree he used to climb
when playing with kids,
now dangles in front of the spectators
Their humble look is wiped by the wind
that moves his cold stoned body
among the possible edges.

Even if he’s dull
his shadow seeps through the branches
straight to his throat

The lost bells in a vacuum of noise
mime a song to open the gates
to another me, another you

All the participants repeat with words like metal
their own beliefs; the priest is lost far away from the ceremony
where the beasts of the underworld come
to take his track further in time.

After the last leaf knocks the ground,
after the last sun runs in nowhere,
there is to be found a whisper

The whisper of his sight crushing
in the poor gaze lost on the ground
of solitude, in the chaos of souls

Now, he lingers from above the pit
where the souls act a theatre of tragedy
His tears drained between cheeks
Wind blows against the will
upon the layers buried in ash
of his past life’s reminiscences