From the city and the mountains
the clamor of the dying rises.
Because they have no clothes, they spend the night
unprotected,
the rain soaks them,
little by little, they are dying of hunger
the disease.
The throat of the mourners cries out for help
who can fix this? can anyone come out of the masses
with antidote and projects, ways to triumph
or human improvement?.
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...
