This is a tribute to Wanda Fox and Katherine Noriega, two girls in the neighborhood Trans Santa Fe, the town of Martyrs (it is either the name, of course), in Bogota, who were killed in recent days. A tribute, so they know you do not forget ...
" And why now I eagerly my death?
why they toiled not, rather, my life?
If I was born in the street, where most believe that could have died?
Bogota's streets are cold, lonely, dangerous ... insensitive to what is different to death?
here do not feel pain, nothing worries me ...
is true, it was tragic that night, I do not know how many shots I do not know how much blood ...
But my life was harder, between silence and the looks elusive,
they did not dare to touch, to feel, to vivirme ...
strives Why do I die? If for you was dead ...
the neighborhood where I lived, is the grave that we have left to hide from the city and the government ...
Why not rather the toils were still alive, which can still insult, discrimination, torture, rape and murder as many times as possible?
I'm already better, resignedly say ... This is yet another death, of many to which I was sentenced living in those streets in that city in the country, these people ...
The chest beating is not enough, as not enough the few voices who cry for me ...
needed to look up and break down the walls that enclose us and do not let us walk in the world ... a different world (not just where prostitution or where I could just die) ...
here and I do not need anything ... or maybe if I have in his memory, not to forget that there are others like me in heels, makeup, they expect more of this life and you more than banners, rather than political, rather than voices of protest, not our voices. ..
why they toiled not, rather, my life?
If I was born in the street, where most believe that could have died?
Bogota's streets are cold, lonely, dangerous ... insensitive to what is different to death?
here do not feel pain, nothing worries me ...
is true, it was tragic that night, I do not know how many shots I do not know how much blood ...
But my life was harder, between silence and the looks elusive,
they did not dare to touch, to feel, to vivirme ...
strives Why do I die? If for you was dead ...
the neighborhood where I lived, is the grave that we have left to hide from the city and the government ...
Why not rather the toils were still alive, which can still insult, discrimination, torture, rape and murder as many times as possible?
I'm already better, resignedly say ... This is yet another death, of many to which I was sentenced living in those streets in that city in the country, these people ...
The chest beating is not enough, as not enough the few voices who cry for me ...
needed to look up and break down the walls that enclose us and do not let us walk in the world ... a different world (not just where prostitution or where I could just die) ...
here and I do not need anything ... or maybe if I have in his memory, not to forget that there are others like me in heels, makeup, they expect more of this life and you more than banners, rather than political, rather than voices of protest, not our voices. ..
hope nights like this, stop going through your mind, and I hope it never plus some of us have to live ... but mostly I hope that nights like this and like all who lived, with no end so sad, like oblivion, which is the real death ...
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