I like to speak
in a simple way
as one unbuttons his shirt
and reveals an old wound
like your elbow which feels cold;
you look
and discover there is a hole in your garment
while the comrade sits on a rock and mends
his undershirt;
I like to speak of whether I may one day return
carrying a dirty mess-tin full of exile,
having in my pockets two tight fists;
to speak in a simple way
but give me a moment to put down my crutches.
We dreamed of becoming great poets once
we talked of the sun.
Now our heart pierces us
like a nail in our boot.
Once we said: sky, now we say: courage.
We aren’t poets anymore
only comrades
with big wounds and even bigger dreams.
The wind screams just outside our tent;
the barb wire is fastened on the belly of the night;
a broken oil lamp
with its dripping oil.
Libros Libertad 