I live in a divided country
Brainwashed by anti-propaganda
The rich hate the poor
The poor could do without the rich
Rural life would be simpler
But the temptations of the city are inhaled
By lungs that die every knock on the window
It's understood
An agreement between the person sitting in the car
And the poor boy begging for alms
I lift my hands and look at it
Front and back
My lines have become undefined
Like a spirit about to escape the atmosphere of earth but pulled back by a force
There's a glitch
My mind is in bits
My vision goes in and out of focus
My stare dead
I feel myself disappearing
And in my place
A richer, cooler, collected person arises
From the ashes
I read my face in the car mirror and see shadows that spell out "Good Girl"
There is a face in the window
What the beggar sees is what he is not
What I see is what I have
Now I open the window and give him alms
What am I giving?
What does the poor receive?
A blast of air-conditioning
A smile of good-intentions
A pitiful amount
On the poor's young hands
I am not giving him what he wants
"I want so many things"
He gets so little
Poor little middle to upper class people
Comparing themselves to everyone
The middle child of the country
I'm rich, I have nothing until I have you
having enough of everything
Is not enough anyway
Possessed by the world
Demons in our ears
Our money is our poverty.
There is a hive that is being built in us
To set our body to work
To work in the Factory of Death
The line of my hands are losing definition
I escaped my conscience
At least in this moment
I am a faultless woman
I want to love my country
My life is a lie
Poverty kills dreams