Sunday, December 1, 2019




Birds still die in your violent silences
no longer sing in the poison of your hatred
losing their wings, their self-esteem
Like me.

It's scary being always the last person in a row
It's scary when they make your name swim in blood
It's scary when you're forgotten
It's scary not to be invited to the party
It's scary to be less appreciated, less loved, less preferred
It's scary to be rejected
to be dispensed, eliminated, isolated
not loved
It's scary when they laugh at you
It's scary being humiliated
feeling powerless
crippled by gossip, the third person
on the bus of your youth, sitting alone
life forever without safety belt
It's very, very scary to be terrorized.

My Sweet Angel

I saw you in my dreams
all of a sudden
you felt so close to me
cleared my conscience
from some clouds
lies and flew with you


The people
poor people
they think about whether to eat cauliflower or spinach
how to sell bread at a good rate
buy it ten cents cheaper around the corner
make love on the kitchen table
or have breakfast
they don't think about launching bombs on a thirteen-year-old
burning his flesh
hurting his soul
us poor people
we don't think about that at all.


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