With neither fear nor threats, the night tucks the rebels. After a day of fighting the weary bones and painful thighs mock their intentions.
Did they think themselves to be invincible? As made of steel? Or perhaps as Titans’ sons? The fight has a price: broken lungs and smothered intentions… or is it the other way around?
The belly demands food; the brain seeks ideals; the heart needs anger to face tear gas and other weapons; the legs beg for rest. Each one wanting something different; each pulling towards its side; all torturing the same soul. The journey was long, but longer have been 18 years of “socialist” government, with misery delivered in droppers and restless destruction.
Will we go out tomorrow again or take the day off? There will be no square, park, city, town, church, barrack, politician, doctor, artist, priest, soldier, lawyer, or prisoner who will remain safe from the fire… From the voracious hunger born out of the real revolution’s flames.
Photo Credits: Hugo Londoño
“Pensar es como vivir dos veces.” - Cicerón