GREAT MOTHER Iron horses, in watercolor dancing, it expels its raucous manure impossible to shovel, diluting in the mornings, fertilizing the fields of heaven, in acid mist. Without being announced, threads of fire now enter his body, rising from the clarity, storms of fury, sweeping smiles. Sometimes they try to decipher, Who manages the colts? in what they call themselves a city, Sighting at every moment, shadows throwing their hurtful whims, about the body of our great mother. Few hear their cries and cries from the depths of it, lost human pain, who wanders from one place to another, how mannequin displaying their costumes not knowing that they will fade to the tick, tack, of the incinerating executioner.