Alice Neto de Sousa
The ash-coloured eyes were burning in the flames of the auto-da-fé. It rained blood. With the same forefinger and middle finger, she moisted the chest in the natural puddle formed by the bodies when the dusk of desires deflowers. She kneeled down with the body turned to the ferule – she gave herself – lying in the bedbugs imprisoned by sins. Baltasar. It Sunday, it rained. The blimundian seas flooded the step. Tainted red was flowing in the sheets of hope, a drop, a drop entangled in the convex limbs, flexed, of a never-ending ghost intercourse, of a mast so slowly fake, insisting, rising in a bodyless deluge. Flooding the land, lost. The body? The soldiers burnt hands bristling its back in a sudden paragraph. Crackling in the bones. Devouring with the eyes the crust that matters to take off. In the delirious lighten eyelashes, almost, almost burning the enlarged wood, inhaled the smell of iron melting in the acids of gunpowder of the unconfessable crimes, rose her arms in complete hysteria, penitence. She burned, how that women was burning, open wide, tasting like once-upon-time borrowed rooster song, the highest noon sun was lit, in an open-air eclipse, Blimunda was given to the stake, raining alone, in a full moon nightly love.