No way there was
To get rid of …
There never was any clumsy door or bitter window
To get out of the messes and massacres …
All shrouded me as a toy
Enveloped with a father’s hands
Worried, sensitive and sincere.
I’m as though a piece of skull to amuse the visitors
Kept and well decorated in a showcase.
I’m as though a fallen object from the high about the ceiling of sky
To the ground of uncertainty … beneath nothing but next to inability …
To get rid of the moth-eaten earth
My life has been waste and restless
Configured which with customs and tradition,
Planted all around by opportunistic and vulgar hands –
The hands of my fathers forefathers
And all the following generations …

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