She.

She

How painful it must be for anybody, to give shelter to some children whose individualistic intentions burn your temples, cut down your hopes and poison your veins even perceiving that it will end slowly with you and with them.

We give it the genre that represents everything that is (the feminine), we listen to it, but without sincerely listening to what cries to us screaming, it is, and it is represented without more interference than in our environment, so fragile and so tender, so rude and so impressive, that sometimes they pass without being warned the damages that always suffered.

See beyond our eyes will be an art that only some will have since childhood, others like me, we have to see the most tragic scenes to start opening the eyes of the soul and meet with it. Maybe this is happening to us as the child who sees inside his school that another infant is snatched the sweets, and even if they do not like it does not intervene, both for thinking that no change would be achieved, as for being distanced and not see that the abuse could be for them the next occasion. That is how we are, that is how we have been, but blindly confided that we will not be like that, because new visions have been undertaken that make us more worthy to be surrounded by their charms every day; but it's a lot and she does not have that much time.

Maybe these are just ramblings of a wandering mind, maybe between the lines you have seen the things that happen but in another way, or maybe it's just the way you express with pieces of verses and very few rhymes, the things that happen to you to her; my eternal Lady in Peril, my dear Earth.

FJ Escalona
White F