The beginning is so easy.
Some painted the sky dark and then wrote down just one word,
And everyone went mad, everyone darted to the exact place (though it was never there),
And then more and more words became nonsense, when more and more tyrants became saints, anyone that came forward would be given an epaulet, whose metallic surface destined to black out in forsaken names.
And they never take care of the ending.
We are on the verge, always on the verge, watchful outsiders.