This isn’t a scrawl more on the piece of paper, they’re letters creeping in the jungle of asphalt to your window. Guerrilla band’s letters that are wetting with the orange rain that you spill on the hands, that they scratch each one of the vertebras of this soul.

Volley where you pour submerged words in napalm on the ribs that fortify this heart who hardly survives with a rifle of jammed ink because of the wet of so many tears poured since that your two legs begin this cold war.

And you, soul which is armed with a kalasnikov loaded with lies, make holes in this hypothalamus with your bad aim. That steeped of the poetic shoot of he green plants it spills over and over to color of feelings this blurred asphalt that surrounds your white body.


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