The bastard glory of inanimate objects.

On the far corner 
of the end of a house
resides all those objects
that bring us back,

and squeezing through time
we fall apart,

that incessant pound
that we hear
on the yonder side of the road
far away from the curtain
of the toasting smell 
beyond the mind can go
resides the glory 
that has no father,

by our ethereal essence
it take us to that conspicuous moment
where all the inanimate objects 
tear us apart,

on that recurrent feeling 
we dive on the deepest
where the sun cannot grasp,

in that farther end 
we plunge ourself
where the bastard glory
that belongs to the inanimate objects


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