The wind ceases to gallop, and starts crawling like a worm through the burning rocks.
The haggard old King dies at the impotence of not being able to raise his scepter.
The Sun chooses not to shine that day, while the Moon counts with rough fingers dirty bills in a corner.
The funeral march drowns between a pestilent stench and a sandy thirst.
One old cigarette, an indifferent hangover, an absent God.
The tedium covers my nose and suffocates me in its pungent misery, slides thick and dry through my rusty throat.
The kid looks at the world but doesn't find anything new in it.
The heat with its waving figures burns lazily my pupils.
We spin trapped in nothingness and forever, gypsies of a grain of sand in a dark sea.
Oh, if only there was an answer!
Author Notes: Find me on twitter: @Cristobalheiss