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Before one more of the many who died in the course of time for the sake of the so-called justice |
| Pale shadow, endless and iterate lying down there on a board: man or woman or thing that looked alike before the piled up earth on the anonymous bosom, the bloodless head that risked killing all the rest for an elemental idea and was killed, there where your nights of love and your days of childhood, the mirror of your house today as hollow as the eyes that used to look at it the forgotten second where you found yourself alone in a lonely planet, lost itself like you in a swarm of winds intoxicated of immensity poor thing you surely were immortal for one moment and today you are not even memory nor date nor melancholy. Why am I seized by your impossible word, now as fantastic as the resurrection of the flesh, that once was and will be fantastic at the advent of each new Friday, certainly. Why, beast of privilege, were you illuminated by that sanguine light, the only thing that distinguishes us from the snail, the voracious worm, the arduous beetle which is gnawing the mouth that spoke it. 0therwise, we are alike. 0 God, or whatever you are, let us always save, you and I what is the most sacred thing: the matter. |
Luis Benítez
De "Selected Poems" - (antología poética, selección y
traducción de Verónica Miranda)
Ed. Luz Bilingual Publishing, Inc. Los Angeles, EE.UU., 1996.
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