Hay unos ojos, me miran ensangrentados. Mundo gris, tiembla. Horas frías, minutos hielo, segundos... No respiro, tieso frente a esas pupilas: sus pupilas desnudas, llenas de sangre. Vuelan los cuervos. Se detienen, el madero, picotean, comen. Mudo. Gente y lo veo. La cuerda en el árbol, su cuello, salta. El guardia en su armadura: "perdón". Dolor, llanto, silencio de mujer. Respairar, otro dolor. Los cuervos. Mudo. Se hace tarde, nos rodean, y los ojos desfigurados, cuerpo asotado, grita y muere.
There are eyes, they look at me bloody. Gray world, tremble. Cold hours, ice minutes, seconds ... I do not breathe, stiff in front of those pupils: his naked pupils, full of blood. Crows fly. They stop, the wood, they peck, they eat. Mute. People and I see it. The rope on the tree, his neck, jumps. The guard in his armor: "sorry." Pain, crying, silence of a woman. Breathe, another pain. The crows. Mute. It is getting late, they surround us, and the disfigured eyes, the bruised body, screams and dies.
