Dear Mary,
young Bethlehem girl with torn
blue jeans, who read your comic books
in a corner among hemp dust and almond trees.
But your comic books are also
our life,
and you can't do anything about it, you
can't change the stories,
it must be like this,
holy Mary: you're dying to
intervene, but you too
are damned to something:
our liberty, your pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem