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.