THE DEAD HOUSE
Let our master come, our mother said, he’s
welcomed; he’s made of glass too.
Glassy, glassy, here it is, that eye which we
also know, and we have, in the middle
of our forehead. We’ve learned of death too.
We know, we see. He, first, taught us about death.
We, first, stared up. Welcome, oh our glassy
master with his glassy sword to his glassy wife
his glassy children, his glassy subjects, dragging
behind him masses of glassy dead, glassy spoils,
glassy girl slaves, glassy trophies. Let the bells
chime; make signals from one fiery mountaintop
to the other about our glassy victory, yes,
our victory, the victory of all of us, since we too
fought in patience and more so the unbearable
thousand-eyed longing. And those who fell,
they are victorious too. Their victory is first of all
theirs, and they see.
Then, let the bells echo to the end of the horizon
and you servant girls, why do you still stand here?
Prepare the glassy food dishes, wine glasses,
Fruit bowls, our glassy master is coming. Here
he is.
Libros Libertad 