There is not eyes but ours,
clandestine,
definitive escape.
Silent sibyl syllabify situations,
sycophant of routine, routine  your self.
Triduum, triad, tercet,
wheat has not eaten.
The same game,
imaginary sand.
Seed that has not sprouted
from the ear.

But, deserved to set in act:
hand but sap,
but sapience.
Hands that start chipped this body,
candid contemplator
of your weave, Ariadne .

To this innocent creature
you have created him a new ghost:
The gift creator,
or better,
the good donor.

I command you: Do your job,
carve him up,
leave him naked
with his   nobles parts
in the air;
disillusion him up
of the trinity this  tritheist,
this archangel  Saint Gabriel
who in holy crusade
brandishes his ardent, flashing, peels sword
to exile him self.

Byron González