Kitabı oxu: «Perception Cauterised»

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P E R C E P T I O N

C A U T E R I S E D

2da Edition

WILLIAM ALVA

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Second edition: October 2026

© All rights reserved. Perception Cauterised

© William Alva

Published by: William Alva.

Layout: Jose Manuel A. Sanchez. Cover photograph: © Fotolia.es

Covers and cover design: © Jose Manuel A. S. Printing:

ISBN:9798177094878

No part of this publication, including the cover design, may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, by recording, via the Internet, or by photocopying, without the prior permission of the publisher or the author.

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Dedicated to all men who, like me, ask themselves:

What is the meaning of life? To those anonymous souls who are always waiting for light and truth. To the invisible ones who seek ideals of true love.

To my father.

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The Syndrome of Paradigm Perception

Acolytes of the unchanging day

were shattering the human,

overbearing in their assumptions and attitudes,

always seeking to oppress him

for his indigenous race,

for his scant wealth,

and his uprooted culture.

These soliloquies of the power elites

sketch out colorful mockeries,

theorizing responses

in convulsive logic

that leads astray

from the path

and from nobility.

Makeshift ghettos

for those who merely gaze at shop windows,

believing in decrees,

turning away from the morning

and from the faith

of hope

of the native day.

Preconceptions of the ordinary

judge and destroy;

and if it is moral,

they all proclaim you,

with one voice,

boring…

loser,

fanatical.

Why do we believe in gold?

In being more than those people

when we never shall be;

perhaps distinct, yes,

when we do not think solely

of our own life

but of theirs as well.

The customary old-fashioned colleges,

distant universities,

academics far removed from the self,

countries from A to Z;

whoever hoards riches

is the one who does not live

off their neighbor’s treasure.

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Systematosis

Insensitive climates greet the dawn,

tempting us with habitual failings,

common enigmas, common crossroads,

and fools who claim to know life

through an astrological sign,

as though we were inert clay.

Processes fall like dead science

amidst disasters,

in the wrath of giants

who feel themselves to be gods —

giants who dominate the pulse of the day,

giants obstinate in brutal power,

giants who talk to themselves,

giants arguing with those imaginaries,

but the human blood they drink harms them.

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It rains mercilessly on the traveler,

and tomorrow there will be a savage sun;

dying and thirsty he goes,

his mind wanders wearily

thus begins the contagion of bitterness

within us,

when no one listens, when no one answers.

The giant, excited by the blood he drinks,

curses the land of the living;

he hurls his enormous sword at another man and slays him without mercy;

ten thousand more fall,

yet he scoffs and rides upon his dragon.

Afternoons of thought and sustenance

course through the blood, unsettling life,

making us believe in chimerical things;

yet many beings are dust, earth—

sage and awkward, together lifeless—

long endure the afternoons.

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Human enigmas are almost solved,

plus the suffering broken across the earth, wearing down the frail

into the human sea;

innovation grows in insensibility;

the soul’s garment, at times, becomes

a monster.

Tragic nights

plunge the day into vanished phrases;

monologues of libido unfold,

filled with confused serpents;

yesterday you spoke of idealism,

O human guide!

And today, you deride with cruelty;

tomorrow, you shall trifle with the soul.

Sensitive atmospheres shroud the night,

and a voracious sun dies in the distance;

on the streets, weary walkers return

to their familiar homes

with the same routine

as the day before yesterday.

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The crickets chirp ceaselessly;

the birds huddle together,

and humans set out to soar naked

through skies laden with the height of vice,

laden with images, with narcotic hues,

lakes of alcohol.

When shall you say no, young apprentice?

Thoughts rise towards those clouds—

clouds that harbour vertiginous thoughts,

murky thoughts, thoughts like viruses.

Schemed fury surrounds the wayfarers;

once they were brothers, now adversaries;

once they played sweetly in the garden,

and now they annihilate one another;

son of the potentate,

what are you doing to your brother;

you asked yourself, too,

whether it was just to kill,

and yet you slew,

through the notion of a necessary evil,

you were transformed into a vile monstrosity.

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Endless dawns, full of magic,

full of that voodoo sorcerer’s

delusions of grandeur,

it begins to grow cold;

it’s summer, and it’s very cold,

the sickness is palpable;

the air reeks.

Excited and drunk on destruction,

the giants sit barking;

war rages in their hearts;

they slander the people

drooling with power,

oblivious to the growth of the self.

They break system after system;

they grow bored of them;

they discuss irrational logic,

they devise equations to suit their purposes;

they educate to be lauded,

they accustom man to medicine,

sapped by vanity

disgusted by the smug rebels,

they revel in the chaos.