When you walk barefoot,
step by step of wind,
when the destroyed city comes from the dust,
someone singing a verse to the hands of a dead person,
Someone says some verse to their space of life.
Can be
that his remains are not distinguishable in the city
that the perfection of the stone does not show skin.
It may be that your blood does not move a spaceship,
it may be that their bones do not serve for towers,
it may be that a star shines more than its voice.
It has happened that crying becomes words,
it has happened that blood becomes words,
it has happened that a man becomes words,
words, words, words in bulk.
When death is unattainable and rare,
when a moldy shackle rests in the showcase,
that each child be given a flower and a bullet,
let it be known that the world is sown with lives.
It will be known that this coming and going of stones did not stay,
that a distant rain was to wet the city.
We will fix the windows with nails,
the dreams, the pieces of earth,
cleaning and mud, guitars,
the chairs, the stones and the love.
Because it has happened that the crying
it becomes words,
it has happened that blood
it becomes words,
it has happened that a man
it becomes words.
It has happened that history
it becomes words,
it has happened that the world
it becomes words,
it has happened that everything becomes words,
words, words, words in bulk.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)