how poor people think that I have not lost anything,
trivial hidden behind bars, covered with the stench of whiskey,
or from things to do, to further occasion;
and thinks, sees and ignores everything I had and, perhaps, did not.
How many times must experience it to understand things,
how many times have you locked up behind endless adolescence,
from which we do not grow, do not go out except to go to the grave;
closed in themselves innocent, the center of its universe.
Unable to see even the first to understand, indolent, dedicated to themselves,
like a ripe fruit that "looks" but bland inside,
for lack of water, courage, did not have the richness of this pain.
And he never suffered from hunger for love, maybe just under,
between war and hunger, a cartoon and a good news
out on the shining faces of advertising.
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