A monologue to an Irish man/act one

The stolen peace:

Walking around a continent
that might be as well mine.
Going up and down, mountains without air
lungs without breath.
Bolivia,
your peace got stolen!
The police are no where to find.
A land lacking rules;
the peace got stolen
by the eyes of the poverty that sees
in me not even a single coin
to pay not even a single smile.
My heart is still longing
a memory that never found truth,
a pain that never found reality;
so I keep on walking
trying to save my energy
to at least be able to
keep on walking
to find god knows what
in a country that
is forgotten by the world.
The bags are resting in a lonely room,
the souls are swinging at the bar;
drink by drink
we the foreigners are paying
to not see that our eyes
got stolen by the peace
that we don´t even begin
to understand.
We exchange smiles, the ones
that don´t need to be paid.
We smile to the unknown cultures
behind the desire
to rest together with
the forgotten bags
in that lonely room.
Without peace we sleep,
without dreams we live,
without money I stand
near you hoping for
another drink.
Drink me Irish!
Drink me Irish!
I beg you please!