Your wound hurts. It hurts so much that the gift of words is not enough for me to express it. There is no figure or background that can paint a war, and these lines are so powerless, so aphasic and toothless. They die without pain or glory, fallen people die. And everything is so uncertain; part-of-quicksand. Urgent doctors attend, from room to room, and with few available hands, who, some two or three years ago, were cornered with kisses and hugs, in bars and cafes. I say that your whole wound hurts, your illness. And I face your agony, and the fear of dying alone. But how, how to say in just words what is unjust in this land. I am afraid with your fear, I am angry with your anger, and no matter how much they explain to us from A to Z, it is also true that all obituaries should not be added with decimals. I distrust those who with emblematic results, statistics and forecasts, sell news and old alarms when the world seeks hugs, company. Families and meetings postponed, people who leave without the right to say goodbye; we get used to making our life a posthumous act, and between parentheses we move and talk as we can, with those turtle faces. I bleed with the wound of another; because the friend who bleeds is bleeding with me. But I fear something else more. I am inclined to think of the loneliness of the lonely, of those who previously opened their faces and happiness to make you pass into their life. They cut off those wings, they already took our time, and I end my thirst to see you up close, as those sparrows that kiss in the yard do now.