Postscript
But they have snow-white eyes without eyelashes
and their arms are thin like reeds.
Lord, not with them. I got to know
the voices of children at dawn
rushing down green slopes
joyful like bees and like
the butterflies, with so many colors.
Lord, not with them, their voice
doesn’t even leave their mouths.
It stays there glued to their yellow teeth.
The sea is yours and the wind
with a star hung in the firmament.
Lord, they don’t know what we are
what we can be
healing our wounds with herbs
that we find on green slopes
not others, these slopes near us
that we breathe as we can breathe
with a little prayer every dawn
that finds the seashore traveling
in the chasms of memory—
Lord, not with them. Let your will be done in a different way.
Libros Libertad 