Illness and vicissitude

rips childrens from their homeland
and leaves crying.

Trample the flowers

Poisons water in rivers and oceans

as it also poisons our lungs.

life allows injustice and the rule of torture.

Death is too sweet a cure

For the disease called life.

And life itself is not so pious as to kill you...

Or at least not without first tearing you apart.

We are animals that pull strips of skin

so with them to weave paper with which to write

in the midst of the oscillation of the ominous vicissitudes

calls Time

What we should ink ourselves about the pages

of our own skin torn off,

it's all the love we've felt

during our agonizing illness.

Leaving our reality exposed, weak and vulnerable...

Even the blowing of the wind can hurt us.

But a shower of salt water falls on us

Pawning our body with the tendons and muscles exposed

until our own pain chokes us,

Allowing that we can finally die as we long so much:

bathed in our own miserable reality.