Skull

Times has that your lamp scattered in your brain dying the Thabor last of your life: times also makes it is extinct and i leave you the death of his countenance. Your skull, then of force replete with, today not more memory of your rubble,  you look so pale and crisp that i imagine see the skeleton that beyond in the pit you carried on their shoulders.

Your orbits without light say nothing, nothing your jaws together; but in it there is a silent laughter, laughter that is eternal of the deceased to see humanity as unfortunate.

If OS is of the life in the bloodstream you get to their deep precipices; don't know if the creases of your face were traces of the time or simply the traces of your premature vices; only you didn't slab that will mark the years of your life, you didn't a father or a wife who poured it to the edges of your pit the tears of that farewell.

There is nothing in it, but the cold shadow; your aspect deathly is a moment, footprint is not more of the day that thou wast a.

In this dark empty cavity there are only the wind ... No More!, which is not the shade nor is it the wind that accompany your luck the cold; therefore where the tissue was fulgurated thought i look at something that works in constant movement in the corner of your emptiness; therefore unknown affinity, the emblem of the industry of your hours, remembrance of the fragility of your life, a spider in your skull is hidden and extends their  trembling hammocks