The Starlings III

Everyone is looking for her;

everyone is suffering for her;

despite her hardness;

despite her cruelty;

despite her love;

despite her pain.

You have no limits

in your tenderness,

and that's why everyone loves you.

Everyone worships you.

Since Love is protecting you,

love is giving you everything that can be possessed.

For there'll be no choice when the cold winter comes.

Nothing, you think there's nothing out there,

Nothing, for the moment,

just perhaps focusing.

Put the eye, put the eye in motion,

to be able to discover

what's the best moment.

You think there's nothing that isn't

living for nothing and for nothing,

the truth is that all certainty

can, can be a good portrait

that holds and prays

to its own story.

Suspicion is that thing you feel,

sometimes, that thing to discover,

which perhaps is just fear.

Strange, strange girl with a white forehead.

Nothing, there's nothing out there,

nothing for the moment.

Asking yourself if you're useful is what matters,

useful in this short life,

when in the end certainty is knowing how to look.

Look, how well-worn the threshold is,

to go out or to come in.

Nothing out there.

Nothing for the moment.

There's a story inside a book

full of fruit trees,

rivers of honey and fields in bloom.

A teller of blue skies lives there,

of sunny places,

and of peaks to fly from.

He enters you

climbing up to the world,

where life there is a hell.

He descends.

To the book.

To the paradise to discover.

From where to reconquer visions

of a lake of crystal-clear waters,

of cold waters and snow-capped peaks.

And they told me, of a path that went down

to the valley, to the valley of joy,

of a humanity always happy.

Happy to gather the fruit of the Earth;

happy to love and happy to be loved,

and to be able to pray before a dark cypress.

Not to fear death,

to dream of life with full hands.

They told me of a Paradise.

that will come one day,

overflowing

with the sweetest thing ever lived.

Whenever the kingdoms of heaven arrive

there are signs within the wheel,

the strategists, the thieves and the wars ascend.

Chaos and glory swirl around,

they hate to death the poor of the Earth;

they're always monsters all the time.

Fanatics.

Spirit.

Old and New worlds.

Violated words burst open,

then comes the saviour and messiah of stupidity,

loving brothers and hating ghosts.

Dressed in humility.

I could discover what their nature is:

It hurts to witness their pitiful mockery.

They announce the extermination of all that is diverse,

they dance with joy at the blood of others,

skilled in the twisted use of words.

To you, worshipper of what's only yours,

Sybarite of insult and contempt,

Display of display.

Not to mention how much you can hate.

Before the death of the two hundred girls,

what do you answer me?

It was being announced

on the screen of all televisions:

The Monster is War!