The beaches, all the beaches - they stole all the beauty of our country.
Try to crawl through the roads: electric wires, rotten animals, broken glasses, crooked buildings.
Each small town, each corner or street, all tropical frankesteins.
And... we are the streets we breathe.
There are so many problems, you can't see a problem.
You only see problem.
You only see chaos.
The streets, intermittent jungle, are too exotic, volatile and violent for a living being.
Yet, in all the mess, in all disarray, small beings find a chance.
Hiding, they dig the mud, build a den, collect the fragments of a shaterred sun.
They find the past,
They find the world,
They find each other,
They find themselves,
They find beauty.
Wherein one breathes, opens the eyes, plays with sticks - they begin to shine.
In little dens, life flows, life spreads, life grows.