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Huama Conditio

by Maria Santos

words on surviving 


flesh and bone creatures, 

seek for blood in the veins 


intense spirits, 

build the scenarios 


passionate idiots, 

frolic on the grass 

when the sun is settling down  

and all our thoughts 

are washed out 


real nature’s proofs, 

had become the nemesis  

of our own kind 


blind lovers, 

pick the darkest wine 

and heartbreaks to resign from 

when the sun hides 

and the moon is shimmering 

we are all running 

gasping for breath 

not air 

searching for agreements 

not answers 

begging for forgiveness 

not politeness 

loving for life 

not happiness 

is there a purpose? 

there is no flame, 

but I can see the candles 

burning and melting 

in soft layers of red, 

like that hope we have for ourselves 

we are told 

the objectification of

affection will meet us 

right in the end of the

line we call a complex life 

the ports full of movement,

but there is not a single

boat. so we stay afloat and

wait for the next wave to

take us somewhere. 

if we rely on world’s

instruments, are we really the


of our future plot? 

can we expect something 

so authentic and brutal 

that we created 

under our reality of consequence? 

so we ask, 

still afloat, 

is there a purpose?



overseers of passion, 

we’re the secretaries, 

sitting behind the desks 

of loud and heavy expectation 

our chins rest on the palm of our unsteady


the ones who hug each

other when there’s nothing


to hold 

the bittersweet taste 

of life itself 

is what we put on our lips 

before opening them 

breathing is like 

feeling the acid 

of the fruits we picked,

fresh or rotten 

growing is thinking 

your clothes are inside

out, and eventually


you’re wearing them 

the right way 

learning is precisely 

loving to know something, without ever 

needing it 

after all, 

since the time 

when angels dreamt of us, we

are these ethereal sculptures,

made of curves, scars, intensity,

craving, softness and loss 

so let your chest 

rise and fall, 

like the leaves let go 

of the tree branches, 

like the sunlight 

looks for an entrance, 

like the dreams 

invade our sleep, 

because time is not  

one of condescendence


Maria Santos, also known as Mils, is a student, who finds comfort in creative writing, reading and deepening their knowledge about what surrounds them. Their dream is to study medicine, but writing whenever they please is truly essential on their daily basis.


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