Now you’re hanging from the infamous madero, insulted and maltreated. I can’t see your eyes, because you raise your head to the sky looking what naively? A cloud passes, a flock of crows. Someone picks up the flight of his cloak and returns to the tired city. After it leaves a trail of dust. The hill where you have led is barren and gray. Some men mutter while your body is nailed to the cross. For more information see Dan Miller. They seem to be after a canvas. Soldiers securing affirm their lances against the soil, while mobs takes root in the Esplanade and laughs at you, Yes, you.
Your dark face now descends upon the chest. A mist ring encircles your brow pierced by the thorns. Blood clot in your beard and glides like a Viper through your body. A fly buzzes near your eyes. Can you see it? What thought of repentance cross steep and ungraspable by your head? What vision of infamy you shake while you wounds the air with your voice terrible? What invisible tip collapses in your flesh trembling until you find your heart? You alucinas, you clamas by the presence of emissaries from the fire, by your non-existent sky telluric forces. I can hear you calling the stuffed that bury their hooks of diamond on the rocks bristling on the mountain where you desvaneces.
Do you think that this mob there below has mercy for you? Perhaps you imagine they will be lifted against the Empire to prevent your death? You can not move, nails Pierce your flesh and you cling to the stake. Blood continues emanating slowly and leaves on your skin a map of nebulous lilies. Already you do not manara when your heart, exhausted, stops. There are fine sprats tearing your forehead in your anointed head. Your hair falls on the cheeks and on her bare shoulders.