No soul, no money [a poor poem]
I started spending pennies
to live without illusions,
now I spend my life
to not die alone.
Is this the destination I chose?
Or just a bad luck move,
that put in front of me the ghost of the gross
that dominates with strength and charm?
I wanted to sell my soul for 3 loaves,
It was not enough.
It seems that a soul traveled
It has less value than a few cents of yeast.
I run so as not to cry, or rather,
so that my tears dry faster,
so I can forget that at night I'm a crumb
at the breakfast of the rich baker.
