It’s not easy to believe,
in the streets at night.
When the moon lights up the cold
it’s not so easy to become peaceful,
when the crickets chirp and the pot echoes
and the stomach shrinks
like a malnourished little animal.
It isn’t easy to be harmonious in the resounding anonymity of misery.
It isn’t so easy to meditate between barbed wire, blood and screams.
But the third world, of the first world and of the second and of the third,
is fed up eating hunger and swallowing love.
It isn’t so difficult to understand:
peace is also love,
love is also struggle,
and the faith that moves mountains
is not the one of the tea room talks,
nor the one of the absurd speeches
of universal happiness remedies sellers.
It’s the faith of the crowd
that goes out of its place of still mass and takes out its hope
with the fierceness of wolves
and even knowing their force may not be useful against governments;
and even so:
they go out to die.

Montse Lopez Muley Abdhalha
(MUSSIA)

Translator’s note: original poem written in Spanish. Translated with the sole purpose of conveying its general meaning.