Tartessia

 



The manna got cold in the fridge fulminated by a sensation of necromancy and days under the tunnel across the mountains, it's me: I'm still in the diluvium
see me, it's me in the rain eternal here... and I'm still in the inflated niche where the choroid retina of the jeweled eye gyrates.
 
Generations keeping the spirit of the goddess alive turned our hair dark and our brain full of black smoke and condensed milk... and the pale death is in our face. 
The redemption escaped from this corner.

Now, según the twilight falls, and some municipalities get lost beyond the mists of Avalon. And beyond.
My abridged hope still fights against the bars of the membranous cage deformed by the tempest. 

Where the lazuline oculus rotates with vascular precision.