Noris Roberts


Wild outcries, the rebellion of my feelings through the turbulent scars that slay me, the winter distresses, peels off my dreams, seems like burning ember, that muzzle one 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 had no longer 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 don’t want peace.
For the unconsciousness of those that kill for a miserable cent.
For the disastrous humanity.
For the mothers that cry for the children that have no bread.
For the cross they have to bear.
For the prisoners imprisoned for ideals.
For the youth that falls murdered in the Calvary of his sixteenth year.
For those that felt tears roll because life entered as many times as the jaws of death condemning them to being 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 fading away.

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