Short century

Moving from the short century to the dead century,
dead of passions and hopes,
of nerve-wracking expectations for a future of fiery suns
and of well-being, a palpable sign of progress.
A sign of history traversing obligatory passages
trampling over defenceless bodies and arousing pride
and faith in heroes, who unique in the world
ignore selfishness and contempt for truth.
They are great men whose mission is
the brightening of the gloomy horizon
and the support of curved backs
and the calloused, greasy hands of the workers.
They gather in smoky rooms,
with the air impregnated with carnal passions
distracting from the black soot
of factories and neighbourhoods.
A mission without a messiah,
of faith close to the soul purified
of every animal instinct. A warm embrace
of comrades, friends, queens with bare breasts
and weapons hidden under their skirts, ready for battle.

Is God dead and the heroes dead with them?
Narrative, storytelling, are the soul of the world.
They are mazes of thoughts
and feelings that create the outer world.
Narrative dictates meaning,
the heartfelt feeling of others' pain
and human stories.
Without narration there is neither pity nor illusion,
only an empty chase of banality
and self-pity.
Would this be the meaning of human evolution?
Raw life without a prism of light to deceive perception
and give meaning to the woody slag,
to the concrete shores,
and the dreams of those who dream of the future?