From a bullet's point of view

How many consciences do you need to imprison to liberate your own?

How many faces do you need to wake upon to accept that day has come?

You, the one who considers himself the cornerstone of their existence, You who considers himself the nexus between their volition and felicity, you without whom the universe is nothing but a pigeonholing of missing links , have you ever looked through a bullet's point of view?

Masses of worthless emotions revering through the extent of your rosebud cheeks as your whole world gets shaken by the breeze of his word, by the dim of her gaze. She spoke of dissatisfaction, he spoke of injustice and they both went wishing for immediate death as they saw themselves in the chair of the dupe. You who wish death by a gentle stroke, have you thought of the terror raised children between the vice of the Sinai and the mystery of Demona?

Advocating to foster your life while thou is still breathing, and yet you relinquish under the simple pressure of a judger's eye, you dare to impersonate the deed of Saoshyans while your will of salvation has never even been on the shores of the fertilized lake of Zoroaster!
Always behind the armor of thin paper and phosphorescent windows, you are the Judas of humanity.

This is what has been wrought for thirty pieces of silver, the tongues of men and angels bought by a beloved betrayer.
The contingence of your wretched smile has warmed up your tears beyond the flames of a white phosphorus bomb, those same tears that have surrendered hope to the hands of believers, those who seek truth in the liar`s eye.
Hypocrites , damned or blessed who shall cast the first stone. You cheer them with the voice of democracy, hand them your sweat and blood with a wicked smile, and look away with a secret pleasure, then treat of incivility those who burn themselves with the cast of your mold.

Words can be broken, so can bones.