Don’t Aim at My Heart
S
Guard, my brother
I listen to your footsteps on the snow
I listen to you coughing in the frost
I know you, my brother
and you know me.
I bet you have the picture of your girlfriend
in your pocket.
I bet you have a heart on the left
side of your chest.
Do you remember?
You had a notebook with drawings of swallows once;
I dreamed of us walking next to each other once;
a mark from my slingshot is on your forehead
I keep your tears hidden in my kerchief;
your Sunday shoes are left as remnants
at the edge of the courtyard;
our childhood dreams, written with choke
on the wall of the old house, are still visible.
Your mother grew old sweeping the stairs
of Ministries;
when evening comes she stops by the corner
and buys a few charcoals from my father’s cart;
for a moment they stare each other, they smile
while you load your rifle
and get ready to shoot me.
Your eyes feel tired behind your helmet each morning;
you traded your childish hands for the hard rifle;
we are both hungry for a smile
and a bit of peaceful sleep.
Now I hear your boots on the snow
in a while you’ll go to sleep
good night, my sad brother
if you see a big star up in the sky it’s because
I think of you;
as you lean your rifle against the wall you change
into a sparrow again.
And when they ask you to shoot me
aim someplace else
don’t aim at my heart.
Your youthful face still resides in it
I wouldn’t want you to injure it.
Libros Libertad 