For the first Time

Echo

For the first time that the language is narrower than the possibility of the truth, oh my God, all this sadness cauterizes my soul with all the betrayal and helplessness. For the first time that the massacres are committed without echo, the martyrs fall at the peak of their lives without echo, and the remains of the buildings are scattered like the Lego stones without echo. For the first time in which death comes, resonates and departs without echo, a hidden hatred that cramps us alone in this open range, squeezing us in all directions and smashes the sky on our heads, from the soul’s piece that flies on the street to the homes that fall down on its inhabitants, individually and in groups, in the streets, homes and cemeteries, hatred that delights in our fragility, it is like trying burning a paper with a nuclear bomb and proceeding as if nothing had happened. Oh my God, as if it was the last country, the last of the rest of the world, and the last of the people! Or as if this spot is excluded from the map, outside the borders of the world, the borders of the United Nations, the human borders.

Echo