Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
I
The day died on rachitic dirty roofs.
Foggy, crowded faces looked at the sinking world
from behind the window panes.
Then we realized they weren’t faces
but the silent gestures of the sundown
which drew a bit of life
on the window panes of the city. Then
nothing.
The last carts, carrying asbestos and stones, vanished
at the far end of the road. Yet, all the stones
of earth couldn’t resurrect this city anymore
since each night it tumbled down to its old great
memories.
An old woman raised her spindle and pointed at
the faraway fire
smoke was rising muzzling the mouth of the sky
someone in the square yelled: “we’re late, we’re late”
but he couldn’t be heard clearly since
the wind was blowing.
A lonely dog sauntered on the evening plain. It rained.
The evening matins were heard at the distance
like a forgotten God who called from help
from the depths of time;
and the musicians, by the corners of the cafes,
with their poor pale guitars in their thing hands
consoled the sorrow, scorn, and forgetfulness.
No one. Loneliness. Only the holes from our old bullets,
on the walls of deserted streets, stared at the city solemnly
like the frightened eyes of a brother we betrayed;
to the arms… to the arms…
Libros Libertad 