Digested, very soon it will be
the flesh of their bodies.
I know that they are heading
to the slaughterhouse
That they will not return
to graze the soils
of the rural plain.
Whoever owns it decides.
Then decides the final course,
what awaits the butcher
Who without delay
will do the peeling .
To please
the silver carnivore.
Without wasting
the miasmas of his hell.
Sausages, which
the palates are demanding.
As one who has,
demands protection.
With mine I go
transported between irons
of daring rolling.
Far from the mess
Documentation that is digital Try
Tokens will jump. So that the right hand can endure
Without fear of losing.
Without expecting a reward
for giving oneself.
One more wink,
that awakens the awake one.
Exceeding I am.
The bostero emptiness, of those who go for more.
Far from the mess.
Eighteen are those of the cereal farmer
That are left behind,
while I go my soil .
Sausages
The palates are demanding.
As someone who has,
demands protection.

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