I feel guilty for the tranquility with which my body rests while at other ends of the same world there are people who cry blood. In the intimacy of my night, with my eyes closed, my hand on my chest and squeezing the sheets, I whisper to the essence of my soul, which is the same as the essence of those souls that cry, who will never be alone. I accompany with a faint song of an unknown language, almost tearing my voice and producing sounds that only emerge from this genuine moment, my pain. The pain repeats itself in my prayers and songs, and not because I want to, but because it is there and I live it. Sometimes I connect with sadness.