Letters for Those to be Slain
They left nothing but the violet
Creeping over the fence of the house;
It moves confidently to their letterbox
And takes the pulse of my letter.
How the sugar has gone down!
They left nothing at home but the home.
She was dropping words into the meaning
And ascending in the poem
Opening the window for the trees.
My neighbour became angry;
Her trees were missing.
The horse ascends two floors of song
And the orchard takes off from the day that follows.
She was alone hunting her cloud
And released the cherries of metaphor behind it.
Whenever she tries, she will be wrong
Her most beautiful mistake is not recognising
The masculine inside her,
And she forgets her role
They left nothing at home but their farewell
And they relieve themselves of us
As if rhythm
Were tight over expression’s hips.
Like two slender women
She falls ill of maturity
And transmits the fever to my language.
They did not leave their names.
They were in a rush
Laying the path in front of their steps
And they gushed forth in their shirts.
They were in a rush.
And I was saying
Delay a little,
Move this lake away from our city
Because it always returns wet.
Delay, the youngest of them was saying
If by chance
On the way to your funeral procession
You meet a boy
Into whose voice song had slipped
And in whose hands, the eloquence of the neighbours’ cypress had grown
Then say to him:
If they besiege you
And you do not find anyone but yourself
In a swift death
O brother, go to death
But die slowly.
The war changed you.
You were arriving in your white shirts
Descending the stairs of rhythm
Did the war change you?
You began arriving in your white shirts
But landing on the rhythm in haste
Elegant, as ever.
And you became winged
Your feet tied with a star.
And you left on memory’s shelf, forgotten
The old tobacco, the lute, the violet,
And the neighbour's daughter
A library sleeping on the dust of time.
You are unlike all the city’s sons
Ready for flight, and for war.
You are unlike all…
Ah, when the war becomes as a school anthem
Any child may sing on his way
Without causing harm.
Why do we become the victims?
How have you allowed children to dispatch all this death?
Your letters struck us
And as usual we forgive – in haste
And like good people…we will pretend
That we have lost our memory.