My name.
Fabio.
My voice serves as a reminder of the morning.
Fabio.
shattered the wave of me against the mirror.
My name is Fabio.
E 'on the Sunday following the Saturday most surreal of my life, a life maybe.
E 'on Saturday the death of Pope
The Pope died on Saturday.
A Pope died on Saturday.
A Pope died on Saturday.
A Pope died Saturday.
a determinate or indeterminate.
And my name is on this Sunday.
Everything is confused and are no longer in front of the mirror.
There is a schism of politics.
Religion steals on Saturday at the secular state, the secular state religion steals on the day of the church.
Voting in a day of elections and not to heaven. It
riconfonde all, but the policy known to take her away from the things that when not needed.
Way, alongside posters of communal spaces.
An invasion of reassuring them stupid and false rhetoric axle and then attack me. Political
resistant or stubborn, and having reviewed journals and magazine and also be reviewed. A former
of some party somewhere in some former junta has come down here to come to an old man in a reassuring picture.
was the pope of young people, in counterpoint to the old politics.
'd lower his head and throwing glances, looks really would be wasted if not discarded.
I immerse myself in my shade Sunday.
is called shadow.
The sun on your back.
The collars of my white shirt escapes from the red jersey, no one notices the gift.
white and red, the Bialy Czerwony .
shadow that tick collar his toes off my shoulders.
look like protuberances.
are two wings of my shadow that would be somewhere else to call elsewhere.
know too well the shadow that has become this country.
My shadow wants to escape cards, names, signatures, bureaucracy, call to arms, to defend the shadow of the country.
A shadow that wants to bury a Pope and my bliss.
