They all wanted to be good.
It strikes me that about desire.
That the lovers incessantly express
after all indecision
troubadours of nightmares and sorrows
under all lunar and terrestrial shadows,
They all wore their lamps working on hands
clean or dirty, bloody or diaphanous,
murderous poetries
of hatred and misunderstanding
or tender feathers of hope,
like canals channeling the torn sails
in the improbable boats of miserable dreams.
They all wanted one day be the best
Was the hope of open and pale childhoods
shot to death, leafless, and in despite of all,
with the arrow of sun still between their fingers,
they all continue to follow that mystery
persisting in the open estuary
before devouring ocean surf
millenary like the immortal desperation
of so many empty wishes,
with no place in the infamous present
doomed to death, consumed
into the flames of any local crematory,
on the lips of a mother
who failed to maintain the immortal flame,
or on the seals of national loan bonds,
such as lullaby to empty cradles.
Everyone wanted to conquer evil
forgetting that good is not absolute,
forgetting the pains of Icarus and Apollo,
but we all wanted to be good,
forgetting that perfect good is inhuman.
This is how we build The Hell!