Elia Casillas: Insulting every root of the tree

 

Insulting every root of the tree of my life, I vomited excrement in my mother's womb, as rebels are born, in a lane designed by someone called destiny. I consume myself in every hour, I grope for any deviation from the night and ask where I came from, or in which apple tree of the universe does my spirit roll, if before I was formed someone agreed to my hours and I don´t know, the signature of the opponent who is in the bet, I continue in the turbulence of interrogations, from the bottom to the sky, without stopping the deliberate accelerator. Who will prevent the challenge, where the outcome favors my antagonist? Just a bolt of lightning on the table would change the course of the chips, giving me another chance, but heaven doesn't have two chances. I'm at a disadvantage, luck has me in the losers folder, I'm going in a movement, where a sigh will remain as a farewell, and the modest payment of the contest, a funeral of white roses. Because one trench  in hand is not enough to extend stocks and there are no triumphs that guarantee my shoes. On which side will I carry the seasoning of my stove? Will some melody of the heart collect my secrets? Why did an unequal fight leave a woman's mark on my outings? The brain weigh less or was my voice smaller? The blood flees, foam is born on the lips, voices ride from the desert, where men keep dreams of females, and bring a war in their eyes.