Lies, just lies there, not only of politicians, the storytellers of the souk, but on the people you admire, of yourself, of those that relief, provided that you their help in the past. Lies opulent as false scenarios of cardboard, wrapping it all, getting black screens on the roses in your memory. Lies just believing you, proud, quiet, reading the book lies in your own life without you noticing. Lies when you cry, when you travel, when you shiver, at the edge of the islands, inland sea in the background, when you break the vase, where persuade your friends what they say is true. Lies seductive, delicious, fertile, warm manure lies as painting the roof of your mouth. Lies in the desolate place of men, children starving, women who walk on stilettos. Lies in the churches and the walls, in cemeteries, on the lapel of the maps in the paradises that we built in the withered leaves of so much truth. Really, who wants the truth, I live my lies, as others do in the tail of a car, no name proscribed and down to sleep in empty stations. Someone up a stone and throws it in the middle of a forest lying is the stone that breaks up all of the branches and sleep forever in the riverbed.
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