I just got my imprisonment, I spent crisis to arrive but I am finally here. The smoke passes through my throat more and more closed, more and more dense. The same environment takes to burn the carbon and feel a rope squeezing harder and harder. Every breath is a step to choking, pain. In my own personal funeral. Smoke, smoke myself, I can not even weep. Dry my tears before they crossed the channel from my eyes. Smoke, smoke myself, I filled the mouth of a horrible burning sensation. Why the wishes never come true? always you recede through the evenings ...
Ana B. Ortiz
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