Thursday, December 2

Sons of Cain – Information

The cookies, filled with chocolate, know that the devil with the tail kills flies. To hell, maximum abortion, he does not like chocolate cookies or human freedom. The devil, always on the prowl, has come and we do not know how it was. A bad draft. A gate open after hours. A silly laugh and forty years of surrenders, resignations, surrender …

Humans divide. Some, the least, are followers of Satan. These, the sons of Cain, are like this from birth. A bad delivery. A bad rope. And they will be until their last stench. The worse the better. Resentment has grown inside them. They are lazy and thieves. They are, in the storm of the century, an overflow of envy, a flood of rancor (urine and pus).

Opinions too. They are also divided. Left and right. Sometimes yes sometimes no. Some say they are not bad at all and others that they are even worse. They neither study nor work. For vice they stone, loot and, if they interfere, kill. Some say that evil has its reasons and others, most, good ones, that there are not sufficient reasons for so much evil. For some the devil has a tail and for others that remains to be seen. But it still smells of sulfur on the streets of Madrid. In the streets of Barcelona. In the streets of Valencia …

Pestilences flow from the sewers of morality. The outgrowths have a tendency to the subsoil, to the dark. To the black hood of the black executioner. To the covered face of the terrorist. To the ugly. Because the fallen angel stopped being beautiful and all his beauty was not enough to hide his evil. It ceased to be beautiful the night that followed the day when it preferred evil to good. That night, already stripped of all beauty, he vowed revenge. He and them, the sons of Cain. Those who enjoy the same spitting on a dead person, than opening the neck of a policeman, than plundering the business of a businessman. And, although those who rule us are silent, or, what is worse, although they encourage the line of Cain, the dead deserve respect. And saying police is still saying something noble and good, and saying businessman is still saying something noble and good. The sun rises wherever it rises and whatever the Pope of Rome says.

They are among us. Like gangrene. And every night a wave of diabolical zombies ruminate hatred wrapped in the rottenness of their own frustrations and the stench of their dungeon without horizons. Blind as blind dogs. Unpunished in a cowardly time. Dressed in black, their entrails are black … Perhaps no one has ever spoken to them about faith, sacrifice, heroism. Perhaps no one has read to them, in the face of the poetry that destroys, the poetry that it promises. They may have grown up in a world without wings, in a filthy pot of filthy materialism. So much, so much materialism, that life is summarized in the nothingness of a cobblestone. Silly as cobblestones! Nihilists! They are the sons of Cain; they are still among us, and they only wait for the command of Satan to impose his sewer terror. Because Satan is on the loose. With or without a tail. With or without horns. With or without hump. The peeled meats, the changed countenance and, in the eyes, crucified, the African hatred of our worst hours. Well that. Because here it smells like sulfur. Even when?

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