Fernando

Fernando was a lost boy

Sweet fifteen attending his first baila

The gangsters stomped on his phone

No pictures

Running away between the alleys of the favela

They stepped on his head

Gunshots saluting the night

When I was a little girl I thought the world might change, and maybe I would change it

Oh, how fast the years go by

But here they have always sang the same song:

Who is our maker?

Why were we made?