IconElegies

I was Manolete. Braver than any of the other matadors. I brought death closer than anyone else. I didn't like attention, not anything extra. I was a hero of the spaniards, until my last fight came, and even after that. I left my fate to death, that time it won in the form of a bull. I had already won love, that was enough to me but my love was not allowed to say goodbye. Poet´s note. Manolete was spanish matador who died at the arena 1947. 

I should have died many times, but I only died as an old man. I no longer drank the cheapest wine in the cheapest tavern. I lived comfortably, surrounded by cats and young women who admired me. I had to live to be the king of the lazy, a group that no one wants, with outcasts and madmen knocking at my door. But someone had to do it, someone had to bring hope to those who no longer have that joy. I had the biggest balls in Los Angeles. Poet´s note. Author Charles Bukowski is still hero for outcasts.

I was the girl next door, who fell in love with a monster, to me he was God. I loved a man, whom the world hated, whom the world loved, God and the Devil. To me he was Him. I got him for myself, just a moment before we died, but death, how indifferent in love. He wanted me to run away, to stay alive, for me there was no life without him. I stayed. He was finally mine. I got him for myself in death. Isn't that what love is supposed to be like? Poets note. Eva Braun was Adolf Hitlers secret girlfriend 

Your name was Evelyn McHale. You were an ordinary American woman. I don't want to be your wife, you wrote in your suicide note, and asked that your body be destroyed without a grave. Then you made your final decision. It wasn't your life that made you famous, but your death. You didn't necessarily want this, but you didn't know it anymore. It was your death that made you famous, after falling  from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. That was your last sight. Your beautiful body survived its last mission and the photographer captured the flawless beauty of your face. That was it. A beautiful death, the newspaper said.

They called him the white death. He himself did not establish a name. He remained silent and quiet, just as when he was lying in wait for his next kill. Patiently, from darkness to darkness. He shot unexpectedly, the best sniper in the world, from far only a roar could be heard, silence descended on the light, again the life of one enemy ended, which flowed reddish into the white snow. Like a beast for its victim, he again lurked, one with nature, the world's most famous messenger of death, Simo Häyhä, and they called him the white death.