by Luis Ullán
Wandering around the abyss
hearts burn in alcohol again,
requirement for their suicide mission,
like hope players dressed in white,
blood stained robes,
disjointed by suspicion.
As dead lovers lecture about life
with caustic verses and insipid jokes,
under a pale, prescribed moonlight,
we savor the tired beatings
tasting life like old blood,
wishing to breathe no more.