On a bush, I will be the least hurt. But the calm will not last long. We rusty shackles placed on the hands and feet. Force us to walk with metal spheres hitting our heels and ankles. There will be a repository of high walls.
The doors shall be riveted metal. Float in the sweet smell of urine and warmth cover numb fingers. We will again push. Tied we fall. When you enter the party leader with his flashlight to see our faces bloody, we will realize the presence of other prisoners.
The door will close. Dark and cold. Nobody will talk. You will hear gasps and groans. A skylight at the top will tell us that the night is high and secret. The constellations we look indifferent. Stars make us flirty winks. On my right hand, dislocated finger, a lizard amount. Maybe it's that or a trickle of blood. Someone next to me, no name or voice, panting so hard that his breath flooded my nostrils. Each time a man come in and we bathe with cold water. Two other clubs and bring hit us. One of the rods have a nail at the tip. Rip my back. At that time, our god we will have left. Just see the flight of his robe when Quidam make us leave the room. Loosen the shackles and see drag to five to a wall almost in ruins. Author often says this. The blindfold placed. Some, tired of pain and humiliation, you want to see the face of death at the apex of the projectile. Venture the hope of farce. The world has been a fiction. There will be no mocking indulgence. The shots will ring at the top of the night. The bodies fall on the stones. The men approached the fallen. Twitching, two will kill shots. Jump the bones of the skull with the brains and the dark blood, leave a stain on the rough wall. I do not know why at the time remember Sophocles. Rave will be the beginning and end of reason. A few steps away, there will be grave. Force us to throw the dead into the hole and cover them with soil. Resbalare and instinctively will support my open hand on the face of one of the shot. I will no pain or tears. My dry lips will slip a thread of saliva. And will soon be hit again, along with others, take me to the dark pockets of the shed. Everything has to be repeated. Again be trampled by the boots on the butts by the insults and flash lights. Someone unpublished succumb to a bayonet. Imagination will provide other ways of torture. Land fill our mouths and synthetic sewing threads. Rip our skin with razors and the wounds are washed with acid. With tongs will start our eyelids. Belts fracture of the neck vertebrae. Knives nailed into the palms of hands placed on a table. Draw the teeth with pliers and accurate shots. Scissors cut out their tongues like snakes forked appendages. The morning will come tinged with purple. The wind will remain hidden in the hollows of trees. When you open the gates of the barracks a corrosive mist flood their face. Cycle returns to its initial stages and the wheel of life and death will turn and rotate. At that time, the snow lilies shine on the bodies and on the tops of the trees the birds sing indifferent.