Friday, 2 March 2012


You thrive on misery,
You are just that kind
who follow in their fathers footsteps.
Remember the story?
The one You told me?
How, your father dropped dead on the street.
I saw his shame in your eyes
and The Fear.

You grew from fine-spun silk,
you are that ilk, who
fall to their knees
and smell the fresh cut grass.

I saw you dreaming in your citadel, You
were a soldier of the sovereignty,
of the islands.
You miscarried your pride.
You died, in Argentina.