Andrea beaumont
The Inheritance of Ash In the cold attic, where dust is king, the moonlight draws a profile. Andrea, the orphan, the lawless outcast, He finds inheritance, a hostile metal. It is not gold or silver that glitters on the ground, it is the silver grimace, the cold crucible. A mask alien to any consolation, that extinguishes life and hides the sun. His fingers, trembling, caress the face, It's not the face her father loved, no. It is the face of fear, the ravenous shadow, that in the marble of hatred his destiny engraved. When I raise it, the silence seems to scream, a pact is sealed with icy breath. Andrea. She can't cry anymore, the "Ghost" is born, his mourning is over. And by his side she rests, heavy and brutal, the steel scythe, the sickle at the end. It is not a planting tool or ritual, it is the wound that cuts the vital fiber. Carry the weight of iron with fatal grace, while the mask hides its being. Justice is very slow, the law is venal, only the harvest that is about to be born remains.
About Andrea beaumont
The Inheritance of Ash In the cold attic, where dust is king, the moonlight draws a profile. Andrea, the orphan, the lawless outcast, He finds inheritance, a hostile metal. It is not gold or silver that glitters on the ground, it is the silver grimace, the cold crucible. A mask alien to any consolation, that extinguishes life and hides the sun. ...Read more