mercoledì 29 settembre 2010

Farenheit 451

And in the flames something dies and something finds its way to life.
The flaring light that stains the darkness, the heat that dies out in a few breathes
watch us standing in the glare of unborn now and unshaped then.
The tainted night of our faces reflects the funeral pyre: paper and ink burn bright their years of tears, uncertainty, sweat, hopes and weariness.
Sheets are our lamb - fire is our blade - and the ashes are the blood in our sacrificial fest.

Nessun commento: