- Wash away the blood and sweat, always getting "cleaner" -

I used to be a shepherd,
closing the same gate
when night falls
and the day's eaten up
by the city's greedy lights
climbing over hills,
underhandedly.

I could count my sheep,
seek for a shadow,
bear the pitiless strength of the sun
~ striking ~
like a thousand blades on my skin.

I remember still
holding the knife,
dripping the blood of coal-like eyes:
the smell of agonizing life springs from the wound,
the shaking warmth of its flesh surrounds me,
until it takes me
to higher levels of compassion.

There, covered in sweat,
with sticky-blooded hands,
I feel the lines drawn by my tears
and with them,
I fall to the dry ground.

Why do some memories
feel sad, yet comforting?
Toxic is the suffocating heat of the city
that has taught me cleaner crimes.