He becomes Lord who traffics slaves in white,
who produces slaves for others.
They become Lords forever
who cease to belong to the earth
to own the land.

Today they sell slaves as always...
and like never... almost like nothing
blood lust circulates.
They sell them slaves to themselves.
are ripped from the ground
in the slave harvest
like meager seed.

He becomes Lord who is aware of his power
to step on cockroaches,
to despise and love under the same form.
Your shoes smell like cockroaches.
That characteristic cockroach smell of the Lord.

He becomes Lord who abuses without scruples.
Who rapes without committing rape.
They are affaire, hobbies or services
the deaths that claim a surname in the home.

Skulls, crypts and darkness,
graves and irreversible lamentations,
invisible sentences grill the skin of the Lord.
He does in absolute darkness
sketches of fortune,
he drowns logic in the walls.

But nothing covers the rotting of his body.
The eyes are necessary when he buries dignity.
Meanness is his nature.

Cities diverge just in proportion to ambition,
horror is a perfect calculation.
In the laboratories of invisible cities and
select objects are exclusive pools,
deep pits to hide misery.
The damned entrench themselves underwater
amorphous like dreams, and like their fears.

They consecrate themselves to the silence of souls.
They ooze last hopes. And they break...
with the frozen wrist and the flies of his life.
Finally the silence of death makes it Lord.