In a world where retribution rules, an eye for an eye, a bullet for a bullet, a tooth for a tooth, the cycle of vengeance spins without end. Clandestine smugglers recite verses of deceit, not the sweet nothings of lovers. Their words burst through the silence of the night, restless echoes in the cold, dark streets.

These are the souls disenchanted with any semblance of innocence, their lives a stark contrast to the purity they once knew. They wander between the cars, begging at the closed signals of society’s indifference, their eyes pierced with the sharpness of reality, like the poet who sees too much, feels too deeply, and walks barefoot on the scorching sands of truth.

In the corners where violence lurks, where arguments collapse under the weight of anger, where hope has packed its bags and departed without a trace—there you find the heart of despair. Under the shadow of a curfew, in the stillness of oppression, there is a scream—a primal, guttural cry for freedom, for peace, for a chance to live not just survive.

This is the prose of the streets, the unwritten stories of the forgotten, the anthem of the voiceless. It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even when the night seems endless, and the cold bites to the bone.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer