The Harts

Cities thrive. Behind the streets lit and bustling, spread hunger, despair and tin shacks and mud, cholera, plague, and the dead who do not find them sepulchres. Here they drink a toast cask. They Mnchun they take home naked bodies, and they raise their funds in the bank account. While the secret assassination teams carried out their tasks under the national curtain dusk. But … Were we deceived, we took on the heedless hurry? Or we were vulnerable, and oppressed? Or that time was mined in our souls? Or that we were dreaming too? Or as we are still in the era of the Diaspora?