Morta Per Autoprocurato Aborto

Your room full of flowers
and two knives the witnesses of a rite that has no masters
a rite the only remedy to denied freedom to broken wills
amidst the blood she on the floor was winning her war
without speaking without accusing of her three months
of pain of resentment of fear
here's the image and suddenly it seems absurd
t he roads are made of butter we were slipping we were sinking what were we doing
Where is the courage to continue giving life
among the rubble if people no longer hear us
maybe they will give a paradise to women like her
who have decided so and in all this destruction
I look for another direction but I am already too far away
that thing burns inside me inside of me inside of me
the soul twists what happened what remains now
what do I play the bewildered screams
her bitten hands...