The believer-criminals: wandering pilgrims in the asphalt cities, eternal refugees under the Weeping Willow of Babylon.

John 19:38-42
The Burial of Jesus
38 Later, Joseph of Arimathea asked Pilate for the body of Jesus. Now Joseph was a disciple of Jesus, but secretly because he feared the Jewish leaders. With Pilate’s permission, he came and took the body away. 39 He was accompanied by Nicodemus, the man who earlier had visited Jesus at night. Nicodemus brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about seventy-five pounds.[a] 40 Taking Jesus’ body, the two of them wrapped it, with the spices, in strips of linen. This was in accordance with Jewish burial customs. 41 At the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb, in which no one had ever been laid. 42 Because it was the Jewish day of Preparation and since the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.”
A lackey s soul that traces the misty paths of the bridles of destinies broken by the fatality of death, flattering the graces of recurrent premeditation on the sullen paths of the infinite fogs of death certain because it is premeditated.
A novelistic narrative that wanders on the asphalt of romantic murder that borders on crime of passion consecrating the sentimental murder of the character Jesus who was to be crucified in order to save the world from "sin", murder with premeditation "a mortal sin" in order to break the chains of death, is the foggy ascent on the steps of the customary lies of the forgotten tombs, of the sacred crimes!
A barrel of ruddy blood writing the same dreary tale of a death necessary because it is useful in order to worship the perpetual twilight of humanity crucified since antiquity once pierced by the scimitar of enchanted corpses encountered on the ochre earth of neglected tombs told by the warlike spirits sentinel of souls gathered mournfully, cursed harvest of pugnacious crimes written hatched from the bowels of the abysses flattering the thorns of the rose hip gathering the flower of the Soul inspired by the lute of geniuses sensitive to humanity.
Searching tirelessly for the pilgrims who have come from the arid lands of distant horizons to collect the corpses dressed in a sooty shroud, to contemplate the neurasthenic roses that have fallen on the funereal glebes, a poetic landscape! Abandoned on the wandering pavements of the commemorated holy crimes.
Invoking the gods of evil, Ares, god of war, perpetuating the infinite heritage of the painful thorns of the ruins visited without interest, without a true story to tell but only a cenotaph to amuse the mournful spirits, the idle thoughts and fetid tastes of desperate pilgrims lost on the tarmac of the waxed graves of coffins deprived of "the fruits of their wombs": the reconstructed stiffs, like Bernadette a damned carrion cast upon the bony stones of the malefactor spirits, of the lapsed thieves and persecuting killers who fell under my innocent prayers when I fancied myself a Catholic.
Miserable relics taking refuge under the "weeping willow" of confused tongues venerating the death of weeping autumn leaves amputated from the magnificence of the dew that gives glory to verdant nature unconsciously seeking the groans of the bottoms necrotic from the afflictions of a life eternally dreamed of but never reached.
An inhuman sluice drawing from the streams of ancient sobs in order to eternalise the insensitivity of souls annihilated by the intolerable emptiness making crimes their only attribute deprived of the innate sensitivity of the poet prophet of fertile visions celebrating the splendour of human nature visionary and revealing of the greatness of the Soul of the chosen lady in order to testify to the fusion between human nature and its essential substance defying the dejection of prowling pilgrims wandering on the blind paths of the lost cities of madness sanctified by a cinematographic narrative and a death gangrened by natural diseases.
Speaking nonchalantly dropping asphalt ink drops on the dusty leaves of the Babylonian willow of the eternally dead refugees in the tyranny of inspiration afflicted by the evils of the cold void of brigand spirits wandering the twilight graveyards to experience the pettiness of the laziness of premeditated prayers.

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