A DOG IN THE NIGHT
I often exhumed such roots with my own hands
I looked at them carefully under the light, somehow
with a guilt. But then it meant something else.
Under the light the roots become like those birds that
don’t see in the light:
bats or owls and of course you can’t discern the mechanism
of their sight. Roots lose their natural ways out of the soil,
they lose their colours and blood like shells out of the water
like speech beyond silence.
Their variability
is simply their denial of a confession
their denial of parity or reciprocation
it is a shut mouth either because of spite or disdain,
or because of death.
I don’t recognize such roots. Perhaps
the blind dead look at them, meet them, grope them as if
they were alive in their country. Perhaps the dead become
roots, they are of the same kin, they agree among themselves.
Yet the dead don’t reveal anything. I don’t recognize
such roots.
Libros Libertad 