Shame on you, by Globetrotter

A man is going to die. I cannot do anything. I cannot stretch my hand and reach him. And the worst is that, while doctors, mothers, fathers, brothers, jet-pilots in stormy skies or worried sailors in tempests, run to save their companions or fight back mortal diseases creeping on someone's veins, this man is going to die in the hands of other men who could save him.
He is just one more. As all of us who will die one day, he shrinks with his own sensations, looking to a small circle of light, getting smaller and smaller before the vessel of his feelings, finally wrecks. I look to the eyes of the actress Penélope Cruz, here in a magazine cover, by my side, and I ask myself what kind of magic tenderness has crafted those eyes. I imagine a beautiful girl I met, here standing by my side and I kneel begging her hands to hold my tears.
A man is going to die. One more. His blood will fall on the head of who ordered his death, over whoever, being able to save him, decided instead to deliver him to those ones who, after his death, won´t have more than one second of relief because of those he killed and are not able to return.
His blood is flowing already throughout Baghdad and is mouthing into the seven seas.
That extraordinary thing which is a body and a soul, in a way that we don´t see anything similar among the rocks of Mars, the frozen gas deserts or the furnaces in planets and stars as far as we can see, that thing which took millions of years to be, is going to crack in our hands.
Yes, I saw the old world come to the end. It was not in Hiroshima, it was not in Auschwitz. It is now. Now that I'm going to kill a third-rank, bloody tyrant, for whom nobody else sheds blood and who shed blood, for so many years, with the permission and tools of us, who are so keen of life.
Yes, I saw the old world crumble down. And the world to come will subside floating on blood, madness and absurd.
We'll never be so hated by the poor of the Earth, as from this day on. We were not able to open the doors of Nuremberg to Spring, we couldn´t open Spandau to a crazy oldman who didn´t manage to see the lirch boulevard for the last time and managed to gather his last strengths, just to hang himself. And it wouldn't add a grain of dust on his victims´ tombstones.
Pilat is asking the throng whom should he deliver and the throng shouts " Who cares? Kill, just kill!".
We do not deserve luck. We do not deserve pity. Nobody ever believes in our solutions. And if anybody did, the rocks on our way would pile up in a wall, the birds in the sky would ascend just to fall on us, nose down.
We lost our face forever and this infamous killing in no longer in our hands, since they turned into squids of luxury and carnage. We´d rather have then cut off. We open our mouth and it comes out a shriek, we open our eyes and the day is darkened and sunk into two black holes, we step up and the Universe, down under, collapses into the abyss.
It rains ice in the heat of Summer, the sun blazes in the heart of Winter, the ground cracks and we, as pellicans of a nightmare, crack the eggs and devour the cubs in our belly. Anyone will just long for killing before anyone else be born, and before being himself born, will dream of possessing a larger and darker bomb than the rest. There will be no new Order, only accounts to settle.
Against this mass of blood, only a river of tears can bring us some relief.
Shame on you! May God have mercy on your wilderness...

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