and death will not leave
anything untouched
not the man who pulls out
every carnage from people's throats
with words of the cross
not the rich that unearth privation
till nothing is left
not the poor that tiptoe
to hide from the blades of troubles
not even the memories we fondle—
our tower of remembrance :
the hurt we bury
the smiles we archive
you see, memories are parasites
when the host is reduced to
a monument of grief,
they die too.