by. Angélica Santa Olaya

Nothing stops the assassin’s murky tusk.

There is no pray, arm nor howl stopping the angel of death on his pass
There is no mom begging clemency for her beloved one

Neither Easter, New Year nor distant resurrection.
The one who kills has no eyes to see how big the screams are
Neither ears to measure the cave where the fears live
Over the walls of hunger, melting is the eyelid to care blindness

and in the mute conscience the scythe's color shines

The horror, with the same face but new name

rests over the never thought spilled tears
Between the one who dies in loneliness and the 43 stayed in company
there are 10 and a thousand and one hundred thousand dead souls

men and women whose absence is named

with so many bureaucratic letters
femicide, colateral damage or missing
All of them, from the bare ignorance, are asking us for help

Listen! Their hoarse and hopeless voices
fall over the days as a crazed cascade
But she, the Madness, only sees guns, bullets and coins
Pitilessly smaller than a single human heart.