I'm a rich tourist in a poor latin country
my obsessions chase me like poor child beggars
they follow me wherever I go
because the streets are their home, they know every inch of it,
there's no escaping them in a territory they know so well
they cling to my sleeves with their muddy, long-nailed hands.
they become more fierce
and I know that my ability to run cannot surpass their determination to get a hold of me
this pursuit is taking so long
that when I look back, there are no children anymore
they have become full-grown men with barbed wired bats in their hands
and I know that the only way to get it over with
is to let them get me
so as I'm cringing in front of the blows and kicks
(I've been running for so long that my knees forgot the touch of the rusted ground)
the blood tastes like victory in my mouth