Nothing happens on the screen of my laptop.
It has turned unresponsive.
My memory of the sounds of my tapping of the keys
Suddenly acquires
A muffled texture of emptiness,
A sour timbre of impotence.
But I keep typing
Our revolutionary manifesto,
Because I am convinced
That I am still alive
Thanks to the pulse of my fingers,
Because I firmly believe
That the words of my letters
Must be going somewhere high
To be received by the Guardians of the Truth,
Who will certify the quality
Of each single sentence,
For them to be fed
To our masses
Who starve in heaven.
Hallowed be their reign.
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
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