Variations of a rotten fruit

Now in the winter of our discontent 

made glorious summer by this sun of York

and those whose sacks were loose to reward

of dusted envies wrapped in bleeding scalps,

We, the hopeless, stand on the hills of Theatre

discerning clowns and belly laughs beneath.

Now in the arcades of fear, their shriek will end

up burning minds of hidden hells awork,

and the blackened skies, descending drop by drop,

will nourish the flowered bouquette of my wake.

None is the wall of Justice, none the idle threat

of orange bully selfish brainless ones

whose trumps are wounding spades, not beating hearts

and joined their lives to purebred well-trained pets.

 Iván Arrillaga Valero