Anthology of wounds - Arct

Anthology of Woundsinside which it had walked for 70 and more years allover the world and that would began to impair and hada bad smell. The soul and the body were still linked togetherwith a strand that would be broken very soon.How tragic and funny the ceremony looked! There weremissals, preachers that made the mass for my soul, inthe place when I had celebrated many times. Even withwords that being alive I felt happy to say. The preacherspoke a lot about a Dom Simoni that had nothing incommon with the real one that was neither in the landnor in the sky. Instead of saying that I organized thefirst mass in Shkodra he told that I was grown up asorphan. Was this a merit or did he wanted to feel meashamed I have had no father? I thought regretted thatmore enemies have when you commit a heroism thanwhen you do any wickedness” Then I began to laugh atthe moment when I would leave my body I would haveno more enemies. And I would be not an orphan anymore. And my merits would be weight in a scale thatdidn’t err. What a big deal! All the life I remained reactionaryfor my people and for my enemies.Everything finished. The chime rang. Its noise madeeven the cypress to cry with green tears. All over thegraveyard were dispersed the funeral music of “Diesirae”. The choir began to sing the hymn of death. A bigtear went from my flying soul and fall down on my frozenface, just a little before it was covered forever fromthe mortal lid. I didn’t see who else cried. I remind thestrange phrase maybe real that was repeated every timesomeone dies. We gather without known each other, liveeven though we don’t like to live, and die not crying”Let it be! It was I, crying for my self! And it was the lasttear…after this…Hmmm It was really this that bothered132