Masses flooding
running, gushing
in sclerotic streets
from Heliopolis to downtown Cairo
and from the great pyramid
to the stone lions
of Pre-colonial royalty
over the river Nile
lost in the way for country heart
me, my soul, and couple of my friends
whom I lead to end arteries
of the city hemorrhagic
were shot by snipers
of Victorian
national police
and some years later,
I want to write a poem
let´s say cosmic
or universal
about that trio human
dream, death and deception
"Emilio, Lorenzo, Enrique
Fueron los tres en mis manos"
a cancer larynx revolution,
of bad alcohol and tobacco?
two holy hands of fate,
and one of eternal *******?
and a bored Lenin setting behind a screen?
(the algorithm will do the masses
when the masses are ready to run )
but time as God
is a lazy surgeon
forgot a scalpel in my throat
and I am being cured of every thing
even the nasty hollow
of my tired voice.
