The moon red and green light.

The moon red and green light.


In the cold night, the wind passing through the cracks of the door, whistling as the mother's cough, painful cough.

Death stalking the city, by gunfire and hunger, constant gun pointed over the hill.

The brothers, all nine, hugged and sleeping half-naked. The blanket does not for everyone, minors suffer more, uncovered.

The older sister, big belly, hoping to complete another dozen, but this time another generation will be inaugurated.

New generation, old misery, constant hunger.

A half bottle of rum alleges that the father is at home. Good.

The father in the home, a rare thing, a sign of food tomorrow.

The rice and beans on the plate, thin plate of the day-to-day, could certainly be accompanied by something else, maybe a piece of meat or chicken.

Hard life, lasting much longer for those who insist he lives.

Water belly, always full of worms, yellow hair famine, contrasting with the thin legs.


The rotten smell of sweat and pit mixed in the one-room shack.

The door partially locked, the latch not helps more.

The police, who came in last found nothing, but the door could not resist.

The kicks scared, nobody could say why it had to be.

The tuberculosis mother, every day was waning. Who took up medicine, but little food, mother's love is fire, partnerships spoons, nothing picked. Feeding the boys.

Death may solve the problems. But the daily struggle and the fear were greater than all. Now would be a grandmother, aged prematurely, the thirties knocking. The daughter of thirteen was now two.

The thinness of the boys frightened.

The boys, when scavenging for food, often pander to the bad delights.

One day, the oldest found a lot of yogurt won. Delicious, rich thing.

How could I expect something in addition?

Envied, often the vultures. These were some harvest and abundant food.

In a place where death is commonplace; plenty of food just for them.

The faces of the boys, without direction, without connection or meaning, denounced the voracious struggle to get these the next day, and so on.

Last year, almost the Mariozinho died. If not for the prayers of the neighbor, goodbye!

Food, health, school, those things that everyone promises illusion.

Starvation is cruel, very cruel. One cannot speak of hunger if unknown.

It is this hunger for wanting to lose weight or Madame occasional basis, the one-day, and no.

The hunger for a life, one life after another life in this semi-death that drags everyone to the dump.

Another day, without anyone knowing why, the owner of the hill called the house "on loan" to hide a few comrades who came from another slum. Do what?

They brought the transistor radio and television, past contacts with life on the asphalt.

It's hard this life between good and evil, between the police breaking the door that leads to dealer and television.

Do what?

Back to mine, a good idea, but where's Mines?

Hunger in the country was also terrible. Here at least has the dump. The food is more plentiful, although thin.

His mother had fifteen remaining four. Of the four was the eldest.

From what I knew of the other three, one was arrested, the girl fell into the life and another lost his mind, the lucky one.

The mother died last year. From old to 50 charges that after living more than 20 on the back of the citizen.

Good until her husband was beating little, drank a lot.

Now and then disappeared. They say there's another, old age early to become ugly.

The other should have meat still hard, stiff breasts over the mouth and teeth.

After all, should not be consumptive. Damn this cough, this fever, the blood spread on the mattress so often that the color red yellow piss of children.

Thinning and fading, the cold that night was chipping.

The cough was complaining that Johnny was consumption, taking root in the shed.

Take to the doctor, mark sheet, next month is still alive or has not healed.

Cured?! Wishful thinking, the easier they have died to heal.

Johnny boy has always been weak breasts, unlike the older, large breasts for thirteen years. Even now one more. Then another, another ... count morbid, sad...

The silence of the night is broken by bullets, bullets and more bullets.

The bullets are in the candy dreams of boys, the steel pierces the walls of zinc and plywood. Barraco stuck around, rain brings mud and gutters. Complicated life.

The husband is on her legs confused after a night of sex. Thing that was good today ordeal. He'd better stay with the other.

The back hurts a lot and be happy is impossible. Have to do prevention.

Diseases of the world are fighting for space to grow in the body can kid. The mother of the whole body is bleeding, an eternal rule.

Suddenly, you realize that the bullets are stronger than ever.

A noise breaks down the door. The boyfriend of the daughter, still a boy, enters the house.

Distraught by cocaine and alcohol.

The bullets approach and seek soft spot. Pregnant belly, soft spot. Easy to enter, penetrate, aborting the future and present. At once.

Maybe it was better?

The companion gets up and cursing the dead girl's boyfriend, pushes him to the exit. Exit the shack. Out of life output.

Little does he know that there is no output?

But the stubbornness, then the day comes, the body buried, stubbornness survives.

In the sky, a red moon watches it all, and embraces the whole shack moved, flooding the hut, a shanty town, city and country with a strange green light and red.

Perhaps this is the output?

A red moon, a green light and a huge glow on everything and everyone...