Sin Of Apostle

On tiptoes, with the passing of the old wayfarer,Whose tongue is damned, choking in the foul salty blood,To run after the cart which is consumed on coarseBifurcated tongues, between squares full ofAnimals and dark alleys (without a destination);Dressed in glassTo shine to a weak sunOf battered iron, you will soon becomeNakedAnd your flesh will be soaked with the most elegant red,That one which is more deep.The man who sells humans will tighten ropes around your feetLet's confess your sin.Sparkling, speechless and naïve plastic diamonds,Behind long sweaty fingers.You will cut your arms and legs not to falter,You will sew your bodies together with (infected) needles,Looked at by astute watchers,Naked men, coming from foreign villages.You will be willing to give up your soulTo be able to stillHearThe tinkling of a coin,You will be ready to confess repulsive sins,To receive the acquittal of the old wayfarer.But the road to forgiveness goesThrough trails too steep for those thatDo not have any dignity left.Legs of worthless people will putrefy with their rotten souls.Dream of the present, oh passengers,Unbounded pride.Puppets with a polished smileAnd interiors made of straw,The old dry bones will painfully breakAnd an out-of-tune choir will sing.