I see
No human faces
In this city of bones
Only fallen graces
On crumbled stones.

I hear
The masked men
In their soliloquy
At the desolate den
Of pure agony.

I feel
Them reach their hands
To a chanting bell
As they zealously trance
Towards the gates of hell.

I smell
The rotten corpses
Of murdered hopes
Hanged in the ruined churches
Of silenced popes.

I taste
The bitter end
Of a golden age
Corrupted by the hand
Of pride and rage.