The country breathes tired. In his veins there is bloody asphalt. At noon you hear fire. That child decided to return because his shoes do not reach him, and his notebooks do not exist in premiere. The girl already has a girl in her belly. Son Lomas de León she walks, but begins to faint in the illusion that of being a dream, of being an actress, of dancing to the rhythm of her fantasies.
The monument in Venezuela lives in the epic of exile. There are already many homicides so far this year the news and the coffee says with impulse. Cities still breathe gas, delusions of forgetfulness. A town that falls in the sole of the boot, and in the distance the mayor looks at the darkness saying; the city was gone. I’m trapped.
In my city squares do not have light bulbs seeing their solitude magic. Encouraging is the woman who leaves the neighborhood to defend her neighborhood. Every step the old man takes is the clap called the cooperative, and he does not give up; because it runs to save the values, the blocks that founded the austere calm of the union.
Even though there are no laughs on the boardwalk, nor books in the Riera Aguinagalde, it inspires. as far as you always see the cují of the scree, as unequal as ever. A flower and a virgin rise up in opulence laughing at grandeur, but their weeping and their petals fall torn when the zenithal look that sees the invisible, where the cardboard ceilings are born.
I return to the mural of Arrieta, where my faith is reborn as that Bolívar de Santa Rosa. I look up, watching your twilight smiling … Carora, I do not give up.
Written by Jhon A. Romero.-