Wild outcries, the rebellion of my feelings through the turbulent scars that slay me, the winter distresses, peels off my dreams, seems like burning embers that muzzle the hundred suns of hope.

 

Once again the mobs, the guns, the beheaded days overwhelm the people in the nocturnal shade of fatigue, piling up their ways in the amnesia of their minds where they suffer, bleed, fight, endure.

 

Hidden between the sounds of the world, mutilated liberty screams angrily, drenched with the poison of false words as if the downpour no longer had outlets that go over the different footpaths in the fields seeded with fire.

 

Liberty screams…

 

For the battle it wants to take on.

 

For the men that do not want peace.

 

For the unconsciousness of those that kill for a miserable cent.

 

For disastrous humanity.

 

For the mothers that cry for the children that have no bread.

 

For the cross they have to bear.

 

For the captives imprisoned for their ideals.

 

For the youth who falls murdered in the Calvary of his sixteenth year.

 

For him who felt his eyes fill with tears because life entered as many times as the jaws of death condemning them to be the peoples that they were not, because dawn will not wake up as it did before, only wounds are left, broken hopes, heartfelt illusions.

 

Mourning, terror, grazes in the fields hidden in the wind and spreads fiendishly through the agitated rabble scattering salt with the stench of their words, shooting at the world from their warriors palace while the bleeding moon sad and whining sees its dreams fade away.

 

Liberty screams because there are peoples sailing in turbid waters of grief

© Noris Roberts