Standing dirty in a line, with my hands tied
Feet naked and trembling, time not on my side
Feeling shame but I would do it again
Steal to survive, silence my hunger pain
Awaiting a miracle
I begin to act hysterical
I'm brought to the front of the line
Before I die, my hands will be falling
Rotting away from my body
The machete has not yet struck
I brace for the sting
My hands sweaty, feel the humid air
This how it ends, my mischievous ways
Hands falling so slowly, my open wound,
Shut by an aflame iron, the hurt unbearable
Hands fallen just another duo, lost in a mass
I stare at my empty arms
Wishing I was never caught
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem