The avenues at the cross roads
car washer, holy pictures
hawkers, gypsy
damning people's haste...
Their hands are held out
begging, their voice
plaintive, children with dirty
arms, smoke and exhaust
gases, as in infernal circles,
poison those damned
words which have fled
from the existential abyss.
Oh...if heaven would open its eyes
on those blackned bodies
and wash their tears
with his...
Meanwhile, the chaotic traffic
runs on the straight road of life,
yet another bottleneck,
a horn sound and go
an acceleration burning the road.
