A man is a lion is a pig is a man.
In cages is trapped
but his dream’s roar is not silenced.
In muddy clothes
he still has arrogance to plan
a future damned.

A man is a poet is a king is a man.
From dawn ‘til dusk
his creations crash upon a reality untouched.
For the sun is diffracted and illuminated
on the golden sand,
but not on the hungry hand.

A man is a feather in shackles
with ink on his fingertips
and iron around his ankles.
His life a dainty dilemma
between instincts and prayers
engraved on each of his skin’s layers.


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