The monks sleep faceless, and their prayers don't reach the light; there is only smoke under the moon, beneath an altar where allegories of ancient music lament the silence of the flesh of the past.
In the forest of shadow, where blood turns to black wisdom, the moon hangs a raven with its dead eye, but every time one walks, one passes a deer skull forgotten by God, and the Arabs whisper the names of the sins that dared to be born. Walking through it too, where that temple at the end of the path was never built, is only storm and fear that weeps, a portrait of those who look too long, where they shouldn't look, their heart beats even though no one feeds it.