The Amulet Poem by Meth Sambiase

Of certain little body
it is interwoven the plot of small hands;
they use them
to ask thanks to that God that moves the clouds and the famines
as playthings
the drops of rain.
They turn around us
of the decorations,
the black dogs and the broken mirrors,
a virgin that urinates
the sweets and the faves that they leave to the corpses.
Many die of it of a hunger
that infested them
as the lice
of the more poor men among the poor men
but to the neck they declined an amulet.
You must look at it:
and' a solo of voices that they don't unite him
the segments of the thoughts
as lambs that wait for the shearing.