Noris Roberts


A tear slips daily by the wounds of your lips,
a look of inert paper that no longer fears death because you have felt yourself sinking between cliffs of thorns where a hedge of salt is all you have to breathe, your dreams are still missing, hope vanishes in the din of a fight that thrashes your mind, lacerating the loneliness where it most hurts without understanding why you survive among shadows of willows and forgetfulness listening to the wind moaning between the pendulums of insomnia, between the aridity of cartons that crunch poverty as if punishment is what you deserved.

Perhaps life broke off your dreams in the profound nakedness where more than surviving is a breath of death condemning you to being a child that succumbs before great deserts, since you wander aimlessly where no consolation nests.

You lie wounded in an asphalt universe asking yourself…
Who am I, a metallic outcry of an illusion?
Because in utter poverty the leaders tore from your lips your cheerful smile while their delicious meals glow exuberantly on their tables,

… and you dreamt a thousand different stories in your territory of lightning and torrents with your vague and hurtful routine.

Lonely Boy…