The Sounder

Because to the sounder, nothing will ever be enough to satiate their hunger. The sounder is not big because they are many, it is big because they are have power and absurd amounts of imaginary numbers in foreign accounts that could never become empty. The sounder is thirsty for more blood than an entire planet could ever spill. The sounder doesn’t care about the tears wept from the peoples of the earth, not about the honey that drips from the hands that search for peace. They, clambered up in their spaceships, want to secure a chair in the fictitious throne of History, in which they don’t understand that they will be the head rolling down the stairs of Versailles. They have abandoned pain, sadness, and they snap at each other like a pack of feral dogs to find who can be more, possess more, create a bigger crater while they talk about drilling to the center of the earth, about killing entire populations, about exploiting anyone who dared to be born with the necessity of a wage, and about buying all the land that is possible to buy to privatize the birthplace of sustenance. They could not care less about the deep wounds they leave on the earthly bodies by their side, because long ago they sold their eyes and ears. Their hands covered in unbreakable layers of apathy don’t even feel the constant flow of the red blood with which they wash them after talking on the phone. The sounder couldn’t care less about what would need to happen to show that they are deserving of being called the most powerfull men on the planet, because the pleasure and thrill they feel only exists when they sink their straight pearly white teeth, when they sit on their big chairs and fucking suits to fight over who has more money, more land, more power, more. The sounder couldn’t care less about anything than me saying this or not. But I have to say it, because I can’t allow that in their voracity, they get to chew and swallow my hands and my voice.

• Maria Alejandra Sarmiento Amarillo