Maybe I’m just words that dwell in the depths of the night.

Words that run along the silent avenues or cross the empty streets of the dormitory towns.

Words that fly through the deserted factories and the restless heads.

Words that pass through the cenacles where violence and money conspire against the happiness of the working class.

Words that are inaudible in the silence of the bars and clubs that once fulfilled our rage.

Words that cross the stillness of the floors where the weariness of the day sleeps.

Words that frequent the insomnia of the hospitals and that do not die in the hands of police brutality.

Words that pass by the illuminated billboards that offer endless dreams to a world that does not dream.

But I am also words that emerge from the silence, intimate and human. A message of hope for a world that seems to have lost the meaning of its march.

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