My house

I used to write about and from. Life had meaning. Now I only see leaden colors that ominously blur the afternoon. My house is the dark stain that remains at the back of the landscape. We interpret everything around us with astonishment. I can entangle the walls and suggest. Whisper in your ears and instill in you the fear of death. Pain is a door, a stratagem to appreciate flesh, its contours, and the memory of all the living corpses that surround us.
They have come for the President.
They ask about the dead children. They repudiate the traitors.
Death came subtly, calculating the losses, wrapping the broken bodies. There is no glory after death; that is a lie that sticks to the skin, to monuments, to nothingness. We are dust and crumbs; outside, everything continues, newspapers are processed, denigrated, exalted. Everything is now predictable and stupid. The rats are pulling the strings from the shadows, like in some macabre experiment. We're sending more children to fight wars waged by pedophiles who line their pockets. We've learned nothing.
A mouse would finish a mousetrap, just to catch mice.

Translated and image created by me using Grok.ai