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Yet to be born, on this ground.
I made a pact with God
or maybe it was with the devil,
I don't know.
I just remember the decisive command,
to not silence what was silenced so much.

Then, it seems not to matter.
To whom, it seems not to feel
Maybe because by hoarding bread.
One believes to be the owner of good living.

Poor him.
The lackey listener of the boss.
Of whom decree or blow commands
be law.
To keep safe the loot,
of those who kill with hunger
the nation.

Where I, dreaming, am dying.
Like someone dreaming is growing.

Then, it seems not to matter.
To whom, it seems not to feel.
Maybe, he prefers to forget,
for the sake of his own existence.