Masses flooding running, gushing in sclerotic streets from Heliopolis to downtown Cairo and from the great pyramid to the stone lions of Pre-colonial royalty over the river Nile
lost in the way for country heart me, my soul, and couple of my friends whom I lead to end arteries of the city hemorrhagic were shot by snipers of Victorian national police
and some years later, I want to write a poem let´s say cosmic or universal about that trio human dream, death and deception
"Emilio, Lorenzo, Enrique Fueron los tres en mis manos"
a cancer larynx revolution, of bad alcohol and tobacco? two holy hands of fate, and one of eternal *******?
and a bored Lenin setting behind a screen? (the algorithm will do the masses when the masses are ready to run )
but time as God is a lazy surgeon forgot a scalpel in my throat and I am being cured of every thing even the nasty hollow of my tired voice.