The feathers of seven ravens
pierced its pearly flesh.
His reason has rotten,
eaten away by metalic worms.
His hands have become
sheer logs,
stirring with termites.
His heart has turned into
a sulphuric lung,
oh, lung of opacity.
He cries with the eyes of
a jealous harpy
while sighing with the
voice of a crow.
He’s eating the stones
resting on the fetid fields of Hell,
dreaming about Sun.
The only solace for him
are the paintings he makes,
but these have changed.
He paints with blood and brimstone,
Whilst the raped canvas sheds
Burning coal and poisonous tar.
Oh, you, you mad demon,
Born from the filthy womb
of Mother Gheea!
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