They bite the free flavors and the possibility
that invents the stomach
rises with reality closed
and open life
the prodigal field of dreams/
then sleeping was also forgetting.
How desire twists the intestines.

Bite the vapor of an opportunity/
hunger satiated at night,
stolen from the air/ next to oxygen.
The stones raise a dream
to memory and urgency
the supplication of the soup.

Imperceptible and urgent crying
of absolute silence grows with anguish
of hungry wolves
covered at night with long shadows.

Try the tasty stone soup
in the life of wretches.
Is it a form of happiness?
The wind serves the soup
to the little ones/ soon
they sleep and forget the hate
numb / breastfed
by the death.

Is it a form of happiness?