This was written in 2015 outside the Palacio Real, the torrent of homeless sleeping insensitively incongruous to the great wealth of the palace.
Digging her arms so deep, she needed to warm her hands,
Felt so cold on a shroven road, waiting for a thoughtless God.
Inside, they walked by empty rooms, praying to the richest,
Paved by a wealth a family borne, well worn,
In a waltz paid for by the sleeping walls.
Had have nots written down their bodies,
Near a barrio broad and barren, aches the hungry
Man who named a serf to everyone.