In the vanished mirage of tiredness
I hear the silence of the mourning men
Your spirit is in vain in the rush of steps
I realize the depth in which the music dies
At the end of my look
What is your purpose?
You wander between blood and saliva
To speak … without speaking
What’s in between?
I will write the history of the time
Who died of hate for everything
Escape that they make to life
At night I write the revolt of the land
That everything nullifies Meanwhile they dig pits
People tortured with freedom in the drawer
Deepest and darkest of the abyss
I see no more than the sad, empty and silent dust
I drop the pen
And behold, I realize that I am in a deep nightmare


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