The first crack appeared in the silence and not in the earth, and it was a very still opening, older than guilt, an unfathomable abyss breathing beneath my feet, so I bent toward it with serenity, recognizing its terrible law, and I felt the air losing weight, the light growing thin, death walking nearby with the majesty Job knew in his day when he asked about its gates and its shadow. And no, it was not a monster, it was a sacred presence, a mouth without hunger, a duty fulfilled in fury. I knew then that Abaddon had not come to contradict God, he had come to obey him, but that obedience was more fearsome than any rebellion, because it burned with a mandate.

And I saw him without seeing him, because it is true that certain powers do not reveal themselves but imprint themselves in the blood, and I saw that around him rose the locusts of the abyss, like horses prepared for war, with crowns of gold upon their heads and faces almost human, too human not to ache, and their hair fell with the softness of a woman over lion’s teeth, and their bodies sounded beneath breastplates of iron. When their wings moved, the air filled with the thunder of many horse drawn chariots rushing into battle, though there was no field, no visible army, no morning, and their tails, twisted and patient, carried scorpion stings, and in them slept a power, granted to harm men for five months, but I did not scream, rather there was an immense calm, almost maternal, in that devastation administered by the angel of the abyss, called in Hebrew Abaddon and in Greek Apollyon, and I understood that destruction, when it proceeds from a divine command, needs only to touch the secret structure of things and let what is false fall under its own weight.

In a scene without a century, where time had lost its hinges and the night breathed with lungs of coal, I saw a woman lighting a lamp in a room that perhaps had never existed, and her hands trembled only slightly, touched by an ancient fever, a fever of revelation, and outside passed the wings, the breastplates, and the venomous tails, passing without passing, brushing against the invisible walls of the world, while the oil burned against every law, fed by a substance that did not come from the olive tree but from the secret sacrifice of things that agree to burn in order not to disappear, and elsewhere, perhaps inside me, perhaps inside a vessel buried beneath my name, a girl gathered dust from the floor and kept it in her palm, convinced of ruin, convinced of the initiatory temperature. Then Abaddon crossed between them without stopping, crowned by rebellion, faithful to a will that does not bow before flesh or justify itself before bones, but he brought no wrath, no punishment, only cleansing, and I understood, or thought I understood, that the sacred sometimes descends dressed in extermination to remove from the altar what was already dead and still kept taking space among the living, pretending to beat, pretending to have a soul, pretending to have a right to permanence.

The abyss did not close, it remained open, black, obedient, filled with music and severe peace, a peace without flowers, without forgiveness and without condemnation, because its kingdom had been born before language, before judgment, before man invented words to call his damned fear sin.

Remember that the voice works from restrained femininity, a femininity more contemplative and confessional, turning apocalyptic terror into an intimate experience. The dominant semantic fields are abyss, obedience, death, metal, wings, and divine mandate, treated with sensory sobriety, so the rhythm advances in broad phrases, with biblical images integrated into a lyrical breath, sparingly ornamental. The desired emotion is a grave calm, where destruction becomes sacred precision.