The multitude of strangers need the aegises.


The fashion magazine heads.

Fluently red.

Dirty textiles can be washed in the laundry,

not hearing any pounding.


A pillow on the armpit, doing a stand or taking a sit,

trusting nobody is going to hit.


An indomitable spirit turns the volume higher,

without making any change of inflexion in the fire.


The scars on the back,

an imprint of the pack.

Can't avoid to see the widespread sad.


Who could illuminate the reasons of deep hate?

Is it anyway too late?