Sometimes I think of Alvaro.
And I imagine that bestial impulse.
It had been bestial. Unstoppable. Impossible to bridle.
There is a side of the human being that is pure beast.
A man knows that side only when fury fulfils the moment -
The moment that cannot be escaped.
And he knows it only after the act has been released,
Only after the act is out of him.
At the same moment, he spots the reason for the act,
He realises the act had erased the reason
The very moment he acted.
That act came from a side completely unknown.
A bestial side.
A side he had never experienced before.
I imagined it like an explosion.
An overflow of evil and alien energy.
It possessed him - like a fit,
A seizure of daemons.
Sometimes I wonder if he has any chance to be excused.
Maybe I wonder
because a man’s grief is brother to anyone’s grief.
That must be the reason.
And he and the victim are alike.
And when I think of that, paradoxically,
I feel empathy for the executioner
More than the victim.
But was he even aware of his crime?
I ask myself again.
No.
Because most insane acts, they say,
Are committed unconsciously.
I believe that only after ejaculation,
He experienced the depth of the abyss.
In the very moment of that devilish seizure,
He was unconscious.
When he caught the girl
By her full, hard, fleshy buttocks,
He finally felt the pleasure of the beast inside -
Raped by the embrace he had yearned
For days, weeks, months.
He had probably forgotten everything about the world.
He was absurdly lost
At the centre of that iron grip.
Et vertatur in belvam.
He was 58.
She was 15.
She had the body of a woman
And the mind of a child.
He possessed a woman
But insulted and sullied a child.
Forever.
The day of atonement -
He knew it would come.
And it came.
The arrest.
The sentence.
The prison.
A life transfigured
By a moment of uncontrolled madness,
Whose origin lay
In two overly full and hard buttocks
Of a little girl
Who was already a woman.
And his life ended
Hanging from the bars of the cell,
Dangling from a belt
Stolen somewhere in the prison infirmary.
Some secrets cannot be told.
Secrets you don’t even permit yourself to know.
Now and then,
the conscience of a man
is trapped in a burden of heavy craziness.
And it becomes unspeakable -
the unrestrained power
and the reason for that folly.
More than the victim.
But was he even aware of his crime?
I ask myself again.
No.
Because most insane acts, they say,
Are committed unconsciously.
I believe that only after ejaculation,
He experienced the depth of the abyss.
In the very moment of that devilish seizure,
He was unconscious.
When he caught the girl
By her full, hard, fleshy buttocks,
He finally felt the pleasure of the beast inside -
Raped by the embrace he had yearned
For days, weeks, months.
He had probably forgotten everything about the world.
He was absurdly lost
At the centre of that iron grip.
Et vertatur in belvam.
He was 58.
She was 15.
She had the body of a woman
And the mind of a child.
He possessed a woman
But insulted and sullied a child.
Forever.
The day of atonement -
He knew it would come.
And it came.
The arrest.
The sentence.
The prison.
A life transfigured
By a moment of uncontrolled madness,
Whose origin lay
In two overly full and hard buttocks
Of a little girl
Who was already a woman.
And his life ended
Hanging from the bars of the cell,
Dangling from a belt
Stolen somewhere in the prison infirmary.
Some secrets cannot be told.
Secrets you don’t even permit yourself to know.
Now and then,
the conscience of a man
is trapped in a burden of heavy craziness.
And it becomes unspeakable -
the unrestrained power
and the reason for that folly.
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