Written by: George Zamalea

They killed him running
	Naked down the street
When a man next to me asked me what
	Happen to him.

I thought to answer till
	The sun obscured me without slashing
The last words, and I was thinking
	I was still sleeping
With joined hands and muscles
	In front of a lead mass.

I am still thinking. Can I answer
	Him as a teacher to a retarded student
In a restless room as the dreamy dreams
	That was once long time part
Of the hunting? Of course I should.
	I closed my broken mouth
And I put a hand on his shoulder:
	Can you feel me? The whole body
Shaken and I know he got the message.