The rain drips
It drips one by one
Hitting my face
One by one
Down an empty street
Lightning flashes one
By one over and over
The bakery down
Two blocks
November rain
And the pieces of bread
With my hand on yours
And drip the rain goes sliding
Past your shoulders
The drip goes as it falls
Between the glances of lightning
I reminded that in November
I walk with my shadow in a birthday
In this soil and I dry again.

The water that goes in
and out of my body
the soft spoken words
that reach my tounge
I stare at the door and he stares at me
I am no opening
nor ending and yet,
I hate the color of anger and
the color of rebellion
in the same way
I hate violence
I hate the color of blood
the choice of liking something became clear
When you have no choice you choose a path
When theres two you question
when there's five you question
I hate the color red in the
same way I hate lust
I hate the color red the
same way I hate you
And I came not hate red anymore
in the mornings instead
I look up and I came to
think that I don't hate red but
the misery of me.

eight hundred meters repeats
one hand over the other
smoothly striding my way down a path of gravel
it crashes with my feet, they are brittle
they crumble and stumble
Hand over the other
breaths that I take and that I forget
that the meadow again blooms  
mouth dry and throat sore
again I am doing what I feel most alive in
one hand over the other
I stride down a mountain  
it takes away from what I can
I build from what I feel
and again I want to leave the comfort
the comfort of being alive
eight hundred meter repeats.

A complete pie with bits of filling
it's closed and shut, it has the taste of bitter apple
bitter bitter like the hands of someone
sweet sweet like the glance of someone
the words that don't stay where do they go

And yet if they left why would I look
into someones eyes or the mouth of a shark
bitter like you or the sting left behind
sweet like the words that linger in my mouth
the language we shared that we can only understand
bitter bitter cariño why can't you demand

The body of one who has been touched with no feeling
a rage that flows in its deepst grip
clothes are torn and sobs are heard
what is more than the mockery of the Carcass the one who claimed it's dead
the object that died in its ******* of what they feared
To who has heard the mockery of the Carcass
at night by the cemetary
or next door by your fellow neighbor
but do not fear the Carcass is alive
and yet you claim it's dead
for that you do not value it by what it is
but what it has.