In the hot twilight
the jasmine tree trembles
racked by moaning and agonies.
Over the debris
an angel with a lascivious look
licks the stumps of the lost wings.
The moon catches on fire in the white sand
and the air gusts sprays of flames.
There is a trace of blood,
there is an odor of burned bones,
and a line of blood drained out children,
furious, clamoring for their empty bowels.
It is the hour of the anointed in a sudden blaze;
it is the hour of the birds without souls;
it is the silent hour of sin.