Enemy of war
and its counterpart, medals,
I did not come up with any battle but one:
to release my heart
of the obligation of hitting the dirt
under the weight of a story
made to praise and glorify
the power of reason.
And now that there's no more trenches
combat is a ladder,
and the one who gets to the highest point
will keep his head safe,
even if, under the asphalt,
The Beauty sinks.
Look at them, like reptiles,
hunting for some prey,
negotiating in each table
the make up of the moment.
They follow all the rails
that take them to the top,
mad to dazzle us
with their parasitic ambition.
Some time ago they pretended to be prophets
and now their only goal is success.
Merchants, traffickers,
more than nauseated, they make me sad
because they couldn't skim even for a moment
The Beauty.
And they talk to me about a possible future,
fraternal and solidary,
where everything that's fake
will end up in a pile.
And now that the wall is falling
we're not that similar anymore:
you just worth what you sell,
long live the revolution!
I reassess the mirage
of trying to be yourself,
that journey to nothingness
that is the certainty
of finding, in your gaze,
The Beauty.