Bread lines
It is the hoarse voice coming from the poor neighborhoods filled with photographers and devoid of everything, the intermittent voice in forgotten hearts, and the smile absent from the features of good people, the bread lines, it is the voice of the woman who did not want to be what they wanted, the voice of the forgotten mother and the voice of the child.....in between. Its pages wrote (from life) everything that the world engraved on my wrist.
