Im suffering the country throughout my body.
I say with Borges, which I did not see in Argentina, nor in the worst moments.
Here, standing firm, in an endless queue; To get , i dont know, anything ...
hearing: - What is it coming, what are they selling sir?- ...
anything, something that comes to my mind .. I say.
I still see people: lame, twisted, moch, lonely old people. Head down, women pregnant with babies in their arms.
Many dawning behind a packet of flour.
The olive green that lets pass the woman who shows the buttocks.
Those who sell their body for a liter of oil
And a diaper pack in the middle of the night.
The one who urinates over the one who sleeps in this, my city that stopped being a garden.
Condition without compass
Turkish blow and lunar calendar.
Trying to find a ghost ship that will change this madness.
And, to be able to say: the torments are finished Ely Galindo.
St Jacinto is the testimony of the disaster; Any doubt by the way.
Just look at the vultures as they fly
And the black herons that lost their pigmentation to howl the garbage.
Deserted street, faces eaten by the fatigues of February and defiant deception.
I have too much pain from this country all over the body.