being a pedestrian
in Quito
I feel so seen
I decided to see
in every face
lines rounded from sin,
in every mouth
words frozen wanting to leave
bodies bodies in the streets
whispering in the houses all the walls
all the roofs
giving each other time to forget
to not ask questions
to return the smoke to the volcano
inside themselves.

walking
I’m surprised to be myself
a dreamer
surviving with barely anything
going in circles around my self
living four seasons
in one day
like four of my moods blocking my way
without position
without refuge,
playing an adobe joke on the cement
wearing a truth on my lips
a lie
a slouching joke of myself.
I’m not able to continue like this
waiting to see death come
to the deceased
dead in life
occupying spaces,
rarefying the air.
deceased that continue
to play a part
when in the quotidian theatre
they lost every right.
its impossible to live with dead citizens
noosed to the floor of a stage
that blinds them to their own physical deaths.