“Don’t matter how much money you got, there’s only two kinds of people: there’s saved people and there’s lost people. ” (Bob Dylan)
Is not righteous and elegant to stare at my dirty rags, to sigh with disgust or pity as you catch hold of my emptied-of-beliefs eyes. So hazel, so trivial, so irreplaceable the print in that you can easily trap in a snapshot. Incognito.
Do not listen to the story that my cracked-by-cold-and-menial-work tiny hands whisper in their trembling. And don’t you ever dare patronize me for these pale lips of purplish tint, whose seal no key of kindness could break again. Their fullness conceals, without my will, the cavernous hollowness behind them.
Leave, leave, don’t pretend you could save the tangled penury of my lingering days of hungers and sorrows. Is not as if you could redeem me from the depths of my hell with a hot plate or a gesture of warmness. Leave, do not hope for my hopelessness, is not meant for you.