CONFESSIONARY The stone of life hurts, shadows, the desire going far from us hurts, body, the ritual of tears, mud flower kneaded by fear. The cigarette moans, how good we were at the hour of courage! Because living in the attempt, being a plan of light on the road, a battle triumph before counting the dead, we were close to death fully dying in the pushing wind, with the pain or in the threshold of the eyes. Because either lost or silent, loving what is impossible we did not do what is possible to be so more human among the shadows. 65 BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE Life hurts and so does the wing because we did not paint an eye on love to look at the world from the inside. Because we were without really being. Because we were and did not believe. Because we are dead.