A star has frozen in the corners of the hills. The setting of my stars drips like invisible blood. Thousands of dead people hang from ropes with their eyes open, wide open, trying to pretend that they are not. Under the trees the shadows are seen golden in the blackest sky that is tearing apart life. I gallop to meet them, sliding through inexorable destinations, slamming my skull against the stones. Tearing my skin, receiving in my chest the arrow that it brings, engraving the verb that stops everything, spilling my marrow in every breath I go to meet it. To soak up its nectars. I go to strum its strings when I observe the trail of my stars. His blood can already be seen. The inscriptions on the portal shine, which are nothing more than its reverse.
