Damned rosary hanging in the nightly abyss of the foggy miracles of the barren shepherdess extinguished despite the lit candle.

John 16:1-15
16 “All this I have told you so that you will not fall away. 2 They will put you out of the synagogue-;- in fact, the time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering a service to God. 3 They will do such things because they have not known the Father´-or-me. 4 I have told you this, so that when their time comes you will remember that I warned you about them. I did not tell you this from the beginning because I was with you, 5 but now I am going to him who sent me. None of you asks me, ‘Where are you going?’ 6 Rather, you are filled with grief because I have said these things. 7 But very truly I tell you, it is for your good that I am going away. Unless I go away, the Advocate will not come to you-;- but if I go, I will send him to you. 8 When he comes, he will prove the world to be in the wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment: 9 about sin, because people do not believe in me-;- 10 about righteousness, because I am going to the Father, where you can see me no longer-;- 11 and about judgment, because the prince of this world now stands condemned.

12 “I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear. 13 But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth. He will not speak on his own-;- he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come. 14 He will glorify me because it is from me that he will receive what he will make known to you. 15 All that belongs to the Father is mine. That is why I said the Spirit will receive from me what he will make known to you.”
A deadly brew of hideous words that have poisoned the human spirit since the twilight of time, making it the inferno of coming wars, old prophecies drunk with the ruddy blood of fatal murder marked by a destiny bearing the stigmata of chronic hatred, the suicidal dandyism of character-gods announcing the ostentatious agony of the human soul.
The gregarious tendency of beings to assemble from the mists of centuries in suspicious places, mystical reverence to the secrets of crime buried under the shadows of the foggy horizons of corrupting words, the deformed protocol of the ceremonial greetings of the spirit to its obsequious death, preaching in the icy and hypocritical vigils of life and prostrating in the twilight of genuflecting mornings and lost in the shadows the death-destined in the books of wars sign of an obscene casualness of the tumultuous liberties of the stiffs-destined to collapse under the ruins of the ochre graves.
a city of carrion that has vanished into the eternal shadows of the funereal mores of the sudden extinction of the time of the original Soul, a trinity struck down by a bitter neologism that has locked up the meaning under the locks of a null existence that boasts the bitter taste of the attic words of a bad shepherdess who excelled in the art of poxy comedy that hides her sickening face under the ruins of a real coffin borrowing the procedure of miraculous thanatopraxy! one of the souls harvested by the fatal death, poor crippled woman, throwing herself into the shadows-destiny of the coffin-museum, ing statue without hope of a sudden rise of the splendour of the crippled Soul, eternal victim of the comedian lie of Bernadette and her fellow saints and shepherd prophets picked out in the cloudy silence by the storm of marble and wood simulacra, surrounded by the clump of cursed flowers exhausting the perfume of the thinking Asphodel in the stories of the Ostrogothic wars.
They have a vain verve and a diligent patriotism marked by the fever of the sieges seized by the violence of the petty greed of soiling themselves with a flag-symbol of a consensual colonisation of a land that has never been violated but always ready to welcome in its filthy body the waste of a sanctified prostitute, whom they abhor in the darkness of their deeply zealous thoughts by offering her the eternal rest of gaping wounds in the seeds of the bleeding earth, of a shepherdess suspended in the chasm of the cave, greyed by the icy cold of the wrinkled stones marked by the unhealthy breath of the wind carried by the abysses of lies, surrounded by poor pilgrims seeking in the gusts of wind a cane to their liking in order to walk well in the midst of the frost, heads bleached by the heavy weight of past years turned towards the necrotic stones prey to hopes touched to the heart by the impossibility of finding the lost life vanished in the spittle of the extinguished and then vainly lit candles, the foam of the vanity of the spirits turned towards a suspended bronze statue deeply blackened by the curse of the trembling debauchery of the wooden knees prostrated at the feet of the gods of slobbering crime.

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