The lead created as a subject of death assaults the Mexican face mercilessly, threatens the child with his backpack from school, the grocer who tries to survive his family. The shooting takes place on any road, and the floor is the common helmet vest while ambulances, municipal, state or federal ambulances are hooting. Neither Universities nor schools protect from the rain of bullets, any family is besieged by the mosquerío of decomposed bodies. The innocent die, the father, the child, the mother, the tombs abound, the executions overflow, the cities distilled into pieces. Worship to the torture to the par of the daily masses. The business of the cemetery laughs with the weights in the hand, no matter the money is spattered with blood, behind there is pain in watery eyes, toy carts drilled in Sinaloa and lagoon laments in Coahuila. Everything is a trench in the sexennial chimera, the notes of violence do not give shivers to the absent hierarch who walks alone by the ravaged earthworks. The lines of fire abound among the taquerias and the entrances to the Churches, abound the assassins because the education was eclipsed in the inhuman robbery to the national wealth. There are no longer dreams of greatness to dream only dregs to survive. Abundant the grave, the ancient and last skull, the extermination of the life and the fury, the revenge by the same hate and the injury to the curse in all its circumstance. Without existing codes we are all dying, the angels dressed in childhood and the demons groomed in purple. The bad ones in the extension of their truth become protervos in the burst, in the overwhelming rage of the Pantheon. They usurp the power that life has over the unfathomable scrutiny of death.
Juan Espinoza Cuadra
January of MMXI