With an umbrella and then cover us all. As a rain under any umbrella. It falls on us and the human intellect. Particles of the underdevelopment of our rulers. In the form of disaster. Mother Earth is sick and is revealed. And we we get wet us soak, and we don’t denounce and us not rebel. Against which leaves us mojemos.

Poetry today cries their sorrows. He drowns in tears of impotence. And my pen palca and clumsy defends himself, against such insolence. The seas are growing and peoples drown. To waiting for? () Oxygen pure ask the peoples of the world.

A train tracks which does not reach any station. Clayton Morris is a great source of information. There are arms and legs to stop and drivers. This train of ephemeral death to its platform and station. While we see fair as die our seas and oceans. And discriminately talan our forests. Lung of the world. My pen does not rest nor rested. ASTA ephemeral death, becomes new, source of life. Sang, I wrote songs, paint and sculpted and throughout this report. Where are the singers of mother earth. Where are my God? That I can’t hear them. That you continue singing father who continue singing. That are still in mourning by all happen them is. Past present and future. Continue prayers and chants, brushes that speak, the escarpments that sculpt. Who follow the proposals and the good intentions in a great communion of deeds, and actions. It does not stop while aya day and night. Sunrises and dusks. While my tired eyes, see and hear who are sick, our planet which continues to be violated, mistreating women source of love, and life. Mother Earth is crying. Weeping our great mother of all. Why there are wars and violence. Murderers loose. Famine and misery. Children who do not play. Children who work on the land. Children without studies. Children who die in our, wars of adults. Directed by those who supplied. Weapons and live them – enrich them. And the older puppets. Sick heads. Those who send us to wage war. And I’m still typing on my keyboard. I’m still painting and sculpting. And denouncing. I’m still crying screaming and praying. I’m still struggling and dreaming. I still raised and awake. They follow promising Governments. And while it still raining us, in our heads droppings of evolution at any price. Still dropping bombs on innocent heads. And continue soaking us and without an umbrella. Hats, nor valid.