I pray for those who fell and rolled down,
for those who sunk, for those who were saved,
for those who cried in mud tears
the absence of those who sleep forever,
for those who seek into the debris
the life taken away under the sweet bosom
of the Ancient Mother lulling mercifully,
tired and feverish by her own fever,
in the sleepless hour of centuries and centuries
of so much moaning beneath cars,
highways and last fashion shows,
for those who opened their jaws
as lions released after the judgment day
and ran through the streets giving
a coup the grace to the humanity and the good manners,
for those who, blind by their blind confidence,
played sixpenny pythoness
and mowed the oceanic flowers,
rocked by the hoot of waters
which turned back, prodigal, waving to
their sons with no more memories about themselves,
for those who speak out, for those who remain in silence,
for those who squeeze the misfortune juice
minute after minute and hour after hour
in big blood colored headlines,
blood from those shattered,
those who cry inconsolably facing the camera,
facing the eyes of the world
greedy for emotions that the share
of the last reality show is not able to cover.
In short, for those who write verses
at expense of the life and death of so many
that never will be able to read them.
