You are now infamous hanging from the tree, injured and abused. I can not see your eyes, because you raise your head to the sky What do you look naive? A cloud passes, a flock of crows. Someone picks up the flight of his cloak and returned to the city tired. Leaves behind a trail of dust. The hill where you have led is arid and gray. Some men whisper while your body is nailed to the cross. They seem to be behind a canvas.
The soldiers say holding their spears into the ground, while the populace takes root on the esplanade and laughs at you, yeah, you. Your dark side is now down on his chest. A ring of haze encircles your forehead pierced by the thorns. Blood clots in your beard and flowing like a snake through your body. A fly buzzing around your eyes.
Can you see it? What thought of repentance swift and elusive cross through your head? What vision of infamy shakes you while you strike the air with your terrible voice? What invisible point sinks into your quivering flesh until you find your heart? Hallucinate, cry out for presence of the envoys of the fire, by the telluric forces of your non-existent heaven. I can hear you call the scarecrows who bury their hooks diamond in the rocks bristling on the hill where you vanish. Do you think that crowd down there is mercy for you? Do you think that will rise against the empire to prevent death? You can not move, the nails pierce your flesh and you cling to the wood.