A HOPE Poem by Eduardo Gómez

Poor people cut bread with thick hands
scrupulously
into thin slices.
During holidays they visit cemeteries
fairs packed with people where they buy nothing
abandoned parks or somber churches.

Poor people roam about like dogs
they drown heavily at the bottom of rivers
roar in the cellars of immense factories
and in their grim eyes there is a hidden fire
and in their muscles grows a sleeping demon.