Into my hands they throw… their slobbering bullets, their treacherous dreams of fluffy politics, these cheaters of feet, these marrow-rippers, and inject into my brain, all spongy with youth, the muddy venom of a revolutionary past.
I walk among people as I walk through a jungle, a protective enemy. I walk in rhythm with this murderous silence, I walk to not hear. Earlier, I decided to swallow back this vomit of conscience; this vain childhood and its skeletal wisdom. I decided so because they are killing me, twisting my horizon into a shoelace.
Killing is worth nothing, they tell me
Or no more than being killed.
And living, what is it? Except not getting killed!
I acquiesce, in doubt.
But doubt terrifies me just as much as that stinking death with its uniform gaze.
Today, I choose to flee. I'll grow up and work myself to death instead. I wipe this wrinkled sweat from my forehead. This destiny, spat in my face, will end up in this lake of terror.
I am leaving. I am leaving without having deciphered this fabulous slogan that my son's son will tell me one day. I am leaving this wind of measures that only plucks feathers from ambitious doves.
With my boots no longer imprinted on the arse of a history of dry moons, I leave my footprints in the middle of a path where the words "our land" are dust swept away by this joyful breeze of habile curiosity.