Here it is not America.
The storm is not far, the pain is not.
Here the water does not flow limpid,
the tears fall black from the eyes.
I was born in the absence of words,
in the lack of smiles.
Flint lies down on dogs' yelps.
His chains are dragged into surrender.
Winter is perennial between spring and winter.
We never hear songs.
The wind comes to freeze footsteps.
I live in Flint, without a single flower to give.
Without being able to deny me the wood of a cross.
Here it is not America.
The dark night besieges me, and the cold snow.
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