Shadow requiem.
A shadow den overwhelmed by hatred and anguish. An empty melody of emotion. The harmonicas of aching weeping, the harmonicas with dried tears. This light spectral perfume in the colors of our ancestors fluffed that reverberates. This vicious sweet your passenger is not in vain glory. The reservoir of hatred runs through the cemetery of shadow, once a path of war. Marked like calves by the thorny iron of fate between the crosses of misfortune, condemned in this timeless loop and the insistence to believe has the irrelevance chance to live again. The castle of shadows is forgotten by his peers. Even the nostalgic fragments are painted by the whitest of white sorrows. Even scar fragments are worthy of their darkest of anxious blacks. Is it the truth through bones of scribbles that we’ll never speak? Is it balancing the reaper so she forgets her sabbatical day?
Bamouin Sinzé
