land
feel beat. I put my hands on your skin and I can feel a constant tingle. My hands are shaking, knees, feet ... an effervescence sneaks through the cracks: Rampage, like a volcano about to explode, young voices, shake hands, strong and decisive steps. Hard
I cling to the ground ... I unfold my wings, I look around ... Here they are, the usual suspects, the ideals of the skin and deep in the head, we want to change this world that is rotten, that we close our eyes and upstream, and if we ever fall back raise (because that is). I look and look at me. They also know that something is going to explode ... laugh with sarcasm, are complicit of this revolt of the Nobodies.
We have no name or surname. We have no face. We have no body.
We have thousands of names with thousands of names, millions of faces with different bodies. We Pocho Lepratti, we Darío Santillán, we Maxi Kosteki, are Mother Teresa, are the father Mugica ... We are starving children, mothers who sacrifice their lives for the lives of their children.
We are the sum of all forces, all the courage ...
are complicit in this that is about to explode, because it must. Springs from the heart of a land hurt by inequality, arises from the combustion of anger ... Born with patience little movement Lepratti Pocho
Maria Belen
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