Poem / Fault

It was their fault
Because they were so ugly, poor and helpless
They ventured terrific events in the nature of an infection in a dirty bed.
Their savage hungers were not possible to feed with whatever we could offer,
It is the sacrifice of ourselves, they ask for,
Lined up beside the streets,
Oh so much desperation that I feel,
They keep walking and walking
careless of bothemselves or our souls,
Displaying their rotten limbs that are
The ones they refused to leave behind
The ones that kepthem intact in their vulgarity.
The ones that they would rub to our faces the first moment they got a chance.
It is all their fault,
That I live with stoned sad fences.


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