Wake up! It's almost noon and you have not cried
In the privacy of your slips.
Invoking the many-hands Goddess
you will not achieve anything more than angry,
bloody two-headed serpent of messages,
discard my optimism with thousands messages
without being able to do anything about it,
rather than bother.
If you wait buried in sand up to half death,
I remind you that there are innocent
that you hurt with rot
your insipid soul; Is it them that you love?
Wretched sacrilegious. You only see for your own welfare
and all your possessions, leaving aside the fact
that made you, for some time, a man with soul.
Weep for what you lack, for deceiving the world,
but not to your own kind, the one that has to die
leaving no legacy other than the glow of the bloody lies
to give of themselves to create a better future than yours,
cowardly piece of scum that I dedicate, undeservedly,
the last gasp of a dead foot rolls you ...