There is just personal death
and collective continuum...

A tear has an existence of its own—
salted from deep seas...

Roses are countless
so as the pages of this...

Life means the amnesia of death,
the amnesia of existence of the death...

We've indisputably
put up a fight...

A plastic rose last
forever for it is dead...

It was only for a few moments
but they were infinite...

Our death is intended
unless we prove otherwise...

Moments,
soaked and swollen...

In the confluence
of two opposite successions...

What a hug-less night!
what infectious cruelty...

From the futile war
remains tons of mutilated hearts...