The day resounded in fire crimps.
The hamlet got jacketed in dark.
Void of light,
Swarthy...gloomy faces.
Blood, a stream moving in the streets of his palms,
a moving procession crowding his neck, his fingers,
his cheeks.
This guy, Mr. Varolii,
consumed in a fear not less penetrating than the melody of the piano,
far worse than the feeling of not feeling,
of air being trapped in the lungs...
Mr. Varolii got pensive,
he imagined his life 8 years from now;
he memorized every line,
all the streets of sound he would walk on.
Varolii,
his heart was burning,
more than all the houses crushing.
All the case he saw,
as he prepared to bleed more,
his mind tasted bitter,
his eyes characterized by harshness,
and his breath could not speak promises.
Was it life or life was it, is?
Just somewhere else he wanted to sit to talk.
Mr. Excubere says:
Are we getting out of here?
I am.
Are we going to agonize over agony?
I am not.
Are we going to imagine the unimaginable?
I prefer to live to die and die to live.
Go fight the arrow Mr. Varolii.
Later on Mr. Varolii found a freestone.
The arrow whispered close to his ear,
close enough that he was able to listen
to his heart's fear...
Mr. Varolii witnesed the heaven's bright sun,
the power of the melting of an iced track.
