THE HUMAN
GENOME
Today, I write a
poem to you and I´m, telling you
nobody will touch my balls.
Nor love, or breeze,
or sciences, or art,
nor the human genome
that knows everything.
Nobody will touch my balls.
Nor love with its
fury that touches and kills.
Nor the breeze or
the air of the stale city.
Nor the ligth, exact
and arrogant sciences.
Nor the deep art of
some humanity.
And the wise genome
will tell us about man:
it should be known
to all of us
that of the six
thousand million human beings that inhabit the Earth,
three thousand
million are already dying
because of the
¨wretched¨ lack of bread.
But when asking for
explanations
because I think that
there is a surplus of bread,
the whole world of
the powerful,
answer me amiably,
that some die from measles,
the minister said
that drug kills,
and others die for
fun.
It is not so bad,
those who don´t eat,
a very small error
in distribution.
And about the rest,
the three thousand million,
always half of them
living and dying,
the superwise
genome will tell us about man:
That half brain you
cannot use,
is the half of man
that dies for bread.
That double life:
reality, dreams,
is only half of the
hunger of the world.
If only half would
die, says the poet,
man would reach a
certain clarity,
but what happens,
beloved genome,
is that guilt will
kill us.
Today´s
man,
the one who dies
because of his other half,
hates the loved
ones
and loved peace.
He abuses either
wife, lover or concubine
till death or pain,
educates so badly
what he produces
that he poisons the
young
so that nobody
steals his job,
his unique job:
keep on killing his
other half.
The infinitely wise
genome,
reaching this stage
will tell us about man:
Man lives ill an
will not be cured,
to be able to cure
him, half is not enough.
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