You Gabriel,
Carve a cold statuette of innocence,
While our warm flesh is ripped,
Behold the ideal!
Blood seem unreal on young hands,
In disbelief I spectate your drama,
Endless statuettes, self in the other;

Seclude in the act,
To be granted only loneliness,
Fleeing a battle unfolding within;
Allow wings of these angels,
In embrace to form the touched;
Or grow another mold, at least,
Until before the first cold image.