I'm talking about the innocent,

of those who raise their hands,
of those who step forward,
of those who cover unknown backs,
of those who make headlines,
of the vermin, of those who take the stone
because their voice was stolen,
I'm talking about those who do not yield
to gold and silver, those who laugh
at the coats of arms of nobility,
those who have crucified Christs in their blood
and in their eyes the miracle of eternal life,
I'm talking about those whose existence does not end
in the skin of clay they disintegrate
but continues, like an artery,
in the hemoglobin of the damned,
I'm talking about those who died,
of those who were not saved from the slaughter,
of those who were not yet born,
of those who painted the executioner's name in the street,
of those who returned from death,
of the hands that stretched the string
that spat out the arrow that She struck a precise blow
to the mercenary's heart. I'm talking
about the nameless, about those who never receive
a reward, nor the shade of a tree
with a rope around their necks. I'm talking, in short, about those
hungry for bread, about the starving
dreamers, about the surviving fishermen.
I'm talking about the innocent.