In crisis, a minute is not a minute,
perhaps, it is a day with its 24 hours
and 86400 seconds.
The moment in which we drift,
while we are a gun that shoots
in the middle of the crowd,
a lot of conversations, music
that provokes the wrath of imprisoned gestures.
In the crisis, words threaten the sky
for the smile abandoned in the tremor,
for changing the century and feeling the body shake.
The crisis goes with its weight of questions
burning the gravitating that relates us to the earth,
the cursed pains and frustration appear,
phrases contributed by the ashes of life.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
