LAST CYCLE © 2008
Screaming poetry in the name of the people,
Immense pains traverse the soul,
Like a young martyr, still new,
Who endures the fury, keeping calm.
They tell the subject that the world is lost,
Adrift, without course or direction,
It cannot be perfect or upright,
In IRS or VAT, without salvation.
Everyone flees from the devil's shadow,
That figure that seduces and confuses,
But we know, deep down in fate,
That no one is made of ether and light.
We all sin, and thus we carry,
The heavy burdens of ambition and haste,
We dig the future where we stumble,
Thirsty for youth that time hastens.
Like a flag of a wounded nation,
The gaze of those who persist rises,
To illuminate, with a warmed soul,
The children who still resist in life.
Little shoots leave the cradle,
Crawling and stumbling on the ground,
Orienting themselves, with scattered dreams,
In the illusion of coins and confession.
We fight, in search of the final balance,
That upon departure is fair and correct,
And that no infernal institution
Comes to claim what is rightly ours.
For even the change, in a clenched hand,
Can serve in a banquet of pain,
And even if to the touch it is nothing,
It leaves us marks in the void and fear.
And so, walking between walls,
We go with the certainty of a full balance,
That in the struggle of life, between gains and interest,
What is felt is worth more than money.