The round of bones

I hope you hear well, what I'm going to tell you, but let it be clear, that everything remains in your mind or in your dream in the valley, where the screams sleep dancing to death, which is around the bones of the skull that always the smile never takes more of her breasts, goats that is her fear.

It's where terror invades the bones, it's where the cross moans and gets dust off to ask for faith, even the large purgatory, but the monks are already made bones a spectrum with a rare robe that fragments your mind.

The bells bend, where the blown wind touches, the dust of the bones of the past of what was once human, where the crows surround these old and clean bones of guilt, but where is the infamous one because terror invades us like the shadow in our living memories, like a osorio that says here lies my soul.

Death is not a terror or a shadow, it is a memory written by life, but the cold and laughter of the skulls that ever had human flesh, are forged between fear the fiction and vanity of every thought of our being, terror does not invade but death does not laugh only we expect her to dance to us as always.