YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

February 2006

VOL XIV Issue 2, Number 154

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson;

European Editor: Moshe Benarroch;

Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald LeWinter

ISSN 1480-6401



   Dan Gallik 
      All The Old Times Within The Waters


   Papa Osmubal

   Jarod Anderson
   Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
      A Fence
      Brain Storming For Zilya
      Railroad Avenue

   Arun Gaur
      1.  Chemist-Girls
      2.  Child behind the Glass
      3.  Night-Scene


   Ashok Niyogi

   Durlabh Singh.


   Tomas Solano
         Translation of POR EL 11 DE SEPTIEMBR by Julio Hurtado.


Dan Gallik 

All The Old Times Within The Waters

On the shore of the common lake
she touched my hand.  With her hand.
I did not melt.  I was getting old.
I did look into her eyes.  Saw

her insecurities.  Saw mine.  Had
had enough and left her for 
another lake.  There I noticed
the water dirtier.  And the birds

funny looking.  And I wept.  Not
for her.  Or the lake.  Or
the wildlife.  I wept for myself.
I had found nothing in life

except its sadness.  I found it
was wearing me down.  I found it
was making me too thoughtful.
Un-alive.  Finally, I wished

I was all over.  The lake looked
forboding.  As I walked out into it.
It opened to me.  Wider and deeper.
Soothing were its reeds.  Fish.

Its depths.  I had done this before.
In a past death.  I had found
it was fine.  I was relieving
worlds of myself.  &.  That was fine.    

Papa Osmubal


He sipped his wine, closing his eyes
while swallowing it.
I asked him something
but I can't remember now
what it was about.
He did not speak.
He did not answer.
He just looked into my eyes.
Then he left.
The screech of that old door
was louder than his footfalls.
The light breeze from outside
echoed in my mind, on my face.
He was always eloquent.
He was always understood.

2:30 PM SUPER TYPHOON ANNOUNCEMENT. MACAO ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A quick exodus of cars, mopeds, buses, worried faces: the city's bridge, Ponte de Amizade, pulsates, trembles. Nam Van lake tells the wrath of the wind: waves are furious fangs, pouncing paws. From where I sit now I see rat-gray thick rain draping the city, erasing the city from my sight. Where are the vilas, casinos, pubs, saunas, pawnshops? Neon lights will all be blind tonight. Perhaps. Perhaps.
RIVER ~~~~~ And tell the quiet river to sing the betrayal of the mirror Its countenance may be clear and lamb-like yet let it sharpen and intensify its hidden shards Then we would be all proud Narcissi whose faces glide away In fragments so bitter and so tiny
DAEDALUS LAMENTS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tonight I shall gather and pick Icarus I will dig a pit for him and bury him And cold and murk will be his pall and bed forever All this I'll do unknown and secret to the sun that stole his youth And then made off to the far where even dream is forbidden to go
SUICIDE NOTE OF A POET ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The cigar is growing short, so fast, faster than the beating of my heart. There is not a word on the paper, but scattered ashes: image of my shattered soul! I am alone, and afraid: no, not of the future but of the past, because the past is an aborted time. That is why we are still here, looking for something we can never find, facing the monotony of yet another day. There is no difference between the past and the future: everything happened already, we just did not pay attention. I look out the window and see people walking. I wonder where they head for. If they would just talk and listen to their soul they would feel pain, but they are without language. Back to my seat, I am again before a knife whose blade is like an eye, like an alluring eye.
Jarod Anderson Hitchhiker ~~~~~~~~~~ The stranger with the knife is no cliche when seated beside you in the dashboard's blue glow. After the attack my car became a celebrity, its interior a photo essay of every smudge, the abandoned shoe. Flash after flash I stared through the glass, watched blood dry on vinyl. He was drunk on freedom; I sobered him.
Grounded ~~~~~~~~ The late afternoon sparrow cocks an eye earthward (some inner-working taken for granted), loosens and falls still. A muddy streak of denim still madly in love with his Christmas bee-bee gun follows a mother's voice homeward while a well-traveled Siamese, not the least fortunate of its breed, thinks the undergrowth particularly generous today.
Florida ~~~~~~~ I remember pelicans like feathered ladles confirming the existence of ocean life next to the dock where I failed at fishing. I think there was swimming, but not much. My uncle said "everything in the ocean has teeth" and reeled in the proof, nothing like Ohio bluegill. When my cousins came north to visit they wore winter coats on spring afternoons. We fed white-tailed deer from our back porch; I told them frostbite could kill in seconds.
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr. A Fence ~~~~~~~ A fence ashes liberated thinkers dreamers cookie-cutter individualists cane-pole weaponry pointless scribbles droplets of bliss wash bowls of virtue scrubbing away grief clinched fists believe simulated flesh prisoner's sleeve breathe grinded teeth imagination's slave the palace of fear mocking angels descending farther near feathers laughter reflection lucky failing conception no sense reality running into the sun eyes collapsed salty surprise time flies a fleeting glimpse of genius a buffoon flying a kite taste of the ocean nervous strangers gothic chic chain-smoking cloves decaffeinated coffee soft voice anger deceit imperfection ocean foam happier than mad waves crashing violent swirls of sand a castle tidal wave shell remnants bread crumbs feasting seabirds hungry bums birds scatter a broken shark's tooth and a desperate stranger's hand drinking with the homeless a gothic chic and frenzied birds I lit the filter and laughed like a lap dancer dry-humped into oblivion
Brain Storming For Zilya ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ reflection tainted imperfect me bodies mangle in crystal gleaming fury step aside I can't see what it is a canvas breathing and clinching avoiding a lynching by several multitudes secret but glued raise another tree to grow old with me lessen the burden of longevity we mutants of the golden beggar's sun have returned to the gallery and its shower of sarcasm now we burn and spread ashes on our canvas after frequent spasm limited life has them I'm the deviant who hurls impurity seeds sowed by evil erections a door to unreality the blemish of imperfection a stain on the palette of life a blue-eyed Jesus impaled with knives a vision filtered thru brainwashed eyes we are all beautiful beneath spurious skies that bring tides of lies and simple truth unrecognized recreating ourselves along the way what is more trivial than today only tomorrow or maybe a realm in absence of sorrow minds bedazzled ideas swirl crimson-hued another blue-eyed Jesus to the rescue the products of our own buffoonery we have got no clue in the lean hour shadows recede and skies darken memories empty into scatter gardens unable to feel of flesh unable to come to exist forevermore in absence of the sun no mansion in the sky no more reasons no more wondering why no more sleep no more drugs to keep me high I would probably sit and sigh when you contemplate the ideal this life is not that bad and much more real encompassed in brains we are electric energy surging insane walking a high wire between pleasure and pain the ordinary and deranged I am one in the same a life so beautiful a sky so strange an avid listener an oblivious ear be certain nothing is clear I wish I knew not fear emptiness nor despair until I imagine a world consumed by happiness too involved to care deeply oblivious unbroken stare I would rather be anywhere but there gripping her warm abysmal swirls drowning in a sea of hair
Railroad Avenue ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was the first Saturday in August 1971, in Pumkinsville, Virginia. It was six O'clock in the morning when Kathy woke from a dream about Mark Lindsay. She imagined him holding her in his arms, and the image in her mind made her feel like she was flying. Kathy absolutely loved Paul Revere and the Raiders. Her walls were covered with cutouts of the group, especially her dream guy, Mark Lindsay. After the dream momentarily lingered, she realized that she was alone in her warm bed. She embraced herself and fell fast asleep. Kathy finally rolled out of bed about noon. Her parents were arguing as usual. Her mom was smoking a Kool Filtered King and standing over the stove. Her cigarette had burned nearly to the filter when the ashes fell into the skillet. No one noticed, so Gladys continued frying hamburgers. Kathy had to be at work by one, so she headed for the bathroom to do her makeup. The phone in the kitchen rang several times before Kathy's father Bill finally got off of the couch to pick it up. He answered the phone rudely as he often did. Kathy's mom Gladys stood at the stove remembering the man whom she had loved so deeply prior to getting stuck with Bill. Gladys had been madly in love with a man from Rhea Valley, but her mother didn't approve of him because he was poor. Bill on the other hand had a steady job, but he didn't have Gladys' heart. When Kathy entered the kitchen for lunch, Gladys asked if she had any plans for the weekend. Kathy told her mom that she and Dorkus would probably go to the Drive-In. Gladys immediately started in on Kathy about being overly promiscuous. Kathy tried to eat her burger, but suddenly lost her appetite. She told her mom that she didn't even have a boyfriend, so there was nothing for her to worry about. Kathy walked into the den where her father Bill was watching television. He yelled into the kitchen, "hey old woman, where's my lunch? I'm tired of waiting. Stop puffing on that cigarette, and bring me my plate. "Kathy just shook her head. She imagined being anywhere but home. As Gladys walked with Bill's plate into the den, she envisioned him choking to death. This put a smile on her face as she bent down to give Bill his dinner. "Here you go old man," said Gladys. Bill looked at his burger, and got angry because there was no bun. Gladys had put Bill's burger on two slices of light bread, both of which were heels. Bill began yelling, "what the hell is this on my burger? You know I hate mustard. Old woman, you can't do anything right...you're fired." Gladys shot back quickly, "well if you don't like my cooking, you can just leave...see if I care". Bill threw his plate on the coffee table as he headed toward the front door. Kathy got up and followed her father to his car. Bill was talking under his breath, "how I ever got stuck with that crazy old woman...it's beyond me." Bill got into his Impala and lit a cigar. Bill noticing that Kathy seemed down said, "what's the matter Catbird?" Kathy looked at the ground before she made eye contact." I just don't like listening to you and mom fight, that's all. "Bill started laughing and said, "that's all your old mammy lives for... she ain't never gonna change! You should know that by now." Kathy nodded her head in agreement as Bill got out of his car to embrace his daughter. Kathy told her dad that she loved him, and she headed to the Cavalier Restaurant where she worked on the cash register. At work, Kathy was noticeably absent-minded. Twice in the first hour, two customers complained that she had short-changed them. Again Kathy began to think of Mark Lindsay. She stood at the counter lost in her head. She imagined herself running her hands through Mark's hair. A customer had approached the counter to order, but Kathy was staring into the register. The drawer had been open for several minutes. The customer tried to get Kathy's attention, but was unsuccessful. The owner now noticing Kathy's blank expression tried to get her to snap out of the daydream, but it became obvious that she was gone. The restaurant owner sat Kathy down in a chair, and put a rag on her forehead. It was obvious that something was terribly wrong. When Kathy's parents arrived, Gladys tried to get Kathy to snap out of it, but she never did. Soon thereafter, Kathy was committed to an asylum. The thought of being in the big house alone with Bill was more than Gladys could stand. On a brisk morning three months after Kathy was left in the Asylum, her mother jumped into the Holston River. Her body was never found. Bill on the other hand found solace in the bottle, and drank himself into oblivion. He died of alcohol poisoning shortly after Gladys hurled herself into the river. For thirty years, Kathy sat staring at a wall in the Marion Asylum. No one ever visited her until the day she died. She was buried on Graveyard Hill on a cold wintry morning as eerie clouds blanketed the sky. As her casket was lowered into the frozen ground, a car sped around dead man's curve with the radio blaring a song by Paul Revere and the Raiders. A small child stared out of the car's passenger window...he would soon be lost forever. The Osborne house still sits on Railroad Avenue. Their initials carved into the sidewalk where only birds now venture. Children nervously pass the house en route to the trestle. The track is gone too. Only bicycles and tourists cross the trestle that faces the old Osborne house that once sneered from the hill.
Arun Gaur 1. Chemist-Girls Those chemist-girls sitting behind their desks do not know what they sell but know how to prune up betel-nuts all the time. And if you ask them for some life-saving drug they would dismiss you--awm lo awm lo. Muddy water gushes down the side-alley on the steps and across the road on the bill-board is pasted the Zarkawt beauty in all her spring splendor, her colors washed in the freshening rain. She is rested on one elbow and asked to smile like some last duchess who should be half-drowned in Celtic dusk of an impressionistic painting. Someone has even taken trouble to mark in ink a mole on her breast just above her rain-washed color-strip. But she does not know what to do with her irregular shoulder blade that threatens to rip out of flesh to spoil her well maintained model role any time.
2. Child behind the Glass What's this child doing behind the glass in a black dress eyes softening up with the curtained mist? All alone in the gray and black window frame he sits by the medical spread of charts and timings: 9 a.m. to 5.30 p.m. With his head leaning against the bar he peels the paint off the sill. His eyes dark open and mildly frozen turn with me like a kitten-orbs moving with the waning moon. Sometimes he looks beyond. What billboard of an aids-addicted Zarkawt beauty does he see or understand frozen in this time-piece?
3. Night-Scene Shadows do not prolong here. They come as a whole in big chunks and jagged triangles. Sun was carried to clouds big golden diaphanous beings invading. A locomotive invisible in its huge steam. When crimson-white tufts of clouds sank black power of city-lights forced through clouds a new projection. Skeletons of trees rose in oval waves of green auras breaking the white kernel-shells. Gabled roofs, pyramids of tin in soft blues. Window-holes with slim iron-rods in huge blankness appeared as embossed scripts.
DAVIDE TRAME CLOSE ~~~~~ Early autumn sea's breath, a world rounded up, the sand's ginger eyes staring huge, salt and grit of crushed shells stuck on your skin, up on your tongue, in sparkles corralling your teeth, the drowsiness so familiar after the swim, in the widespread, lingering grey air under a sun disk in the travelling dim smoky clouds you can almost touch, all distances left far behind, the present its own pillow quietly pulsing here and no tearing gusts, no tears in the irises, no fierce unknown of tiger's spears, the horizon a balm on your pores, you are granted once more child's fingertips reaching out grabbing with no effort the displayed realm of waves-jewels so tame and close at hand for now.
ARENA ~~~~~ There's this roof straight out of our window that is not a roof really, a tarmac floor rather of a house they have long ago stopped building, it's now where they throw food for the birds, a few sparrows soon overwhelmed by pigeons and gulls, which are the strongest and noisiest, you hear their shrieks as they fiercely wallop their morsels, two beaks often thrashing, tearing the same scrap, while all around there's a hell of wings flapping, feathers floating, in a bustle of feet ticking. At sunrise you are not startled by it, you are almost lulled instead and wake up slowly, it's a tantrum you welcome, you feel it on your side, a glad, fulfilling heaven's rage plummeting down and stroking your premises. It gives you miles for stirring in a broad sun and tells you the arena is ready for the pullulating trimmings of the day.
DOWN THERE ~~~~~~~~~~ As a child you enjoyed lingering on that picture of a winter plain, a dazzling stretch of white and a sledge coming from the horizon at full speed, men lashing at dogs pulling and howling by a few skinny, dishevelled trees; it was an old photograph on the cover of a record album, your fingers loved touching the snow and the glossy grey, violet bruised sky, but it was the unknown you sensed beyond that you loved more, the long echoing, enduring trail of wilderness where it was too daring even to think to go. You imagined a roar from afar, or the frown of severe clouds, you scrutinized the dots of the sky with joy and fear, the vast countenance that could tear all apart but didn't budge from down there, you relished the reverence you sensed for the depths of that dark and its threat miraculously kept at bay in the bounty of the distance.
LAGOON, SUNRISE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Brisk breeze on the railway bridge, leaving the station you are plunged in a still dim, cleansed blue, over little scythe-waves. Silence like a stare from the window and gulls gliding on, weightless, criss-crossing in the mute air. There, on the horizon, the rosy wall of a lightened airport building and a light pulsing on the alert breath of the landing strip. Grey, indigo clouds behind and the veiled outlines of dark, lilac mountains. You gaze at the depths of both an airy and solid calm. Now the train slides into the brambles of the mainland while on your right the first sunbeam bathes the sheds and pipes of the factories' busy maze. You are entering the earth of the day and once more you sense you're leaving heaven in its widespread unfathomable meaning, its taste will stay with you in between memory and desire like a constant, teasing brushing blade.
LEAVING ~~~~~~~ Crisp bloom of early morning after the storm, just outside the door the air has the gaze of a quietened blue marvel, the line of the horizon is indented and frank, the sun aslant on the sea wall, orange like the cupped cloisters of the oleander flowers, leaves pointing up like gentle swords, you have an errand, nothing unusual but the acacias' breath invades you, a swarm in a swinging orange vault and the wish of starting the journey is here: although you wouldn't really like leaving for good, just leaving would be more than enough, the way to be able to rest with all these far shores stuck on your side, their alluring without telling why, their scent of unrestrained buds.
Ashok Niyogi MORNING ~~~~~~~ Yellow-brown leaves on the grass Wet with night time dew Low rain filled cloud Smashed rear car window Propped up with duct tape Ash tray on the porch Overflowing with butts A rent of pink on the horizon The sun must be rising over Martinez Bay Yellow-brown leaves detach from the branch And float onto the grass Towards the sunrise I will make my home run Over slippery yellow-brown leaves Wet with night time dew No birds as yet Only noisy old-model cars
NEWS ~~~~ Yesterday night They doused a homeless man with gasoline And set his clothes on fire When they see my festering sores I am afraid for them They are afraid of me Their fright will propel them To beat me to death Let me bathe and shave Let me confuse them with a coat and tie It will not matter For the pavement corner at Market Street It will not matter to the garbage dump It matters to me And so I wear Roman robes To prop me up in my ceremonial hunt Of the half eaten hamburger bun And so I throw poems At imaginary shadows on the ether They travel from chip to chip And festoon some imaginary sky Largely unsung
I AM TRYING FOR POETRY SCHOOL ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have decided to take this aptitude test For aspiring poets Like GRE SAT GMAT Let's call it PAT If you rhyme You will make a dime But to rhyme Is a crime So you can a. chime b. mime c. wallow in grime You must comprehend the following "Ecstasy potions from a frog's warts lead on to the sublime" Is the poet referring to a. nature b. god c. perfume If five people and one dim wit Read a two hundred twenty page poetry book How much of his wits Does the fool gather Depending on my grade point score On Chaucer's "Fairy Queene" My PAT score And my verse essay- "Why I want to become A Poet" they will teach me At some University And then give me tenure And I will propagate This crime against the rhyme In paid time
BATTLE CRY ~~~~~~~~~~ She brought his armor For him to don Shining sword Into his scabbard slid Adjusted the helmet Just so Polished his sunglasses On her night gown And with nary a tear Send him forth To battle the Bedouins In his armored Hummer On someone else's desert sand He caught a sniper's bullet And lay on his belly Incapacitated She sat in her office Painting her nails Children in day school Enough time on her hands To worry About how to get rid Of her preposterous double chin Before her husband wins
DIVORCE ~~~~~~~ Having crossed the river And uncrossed it then I wait for fresh waters to flow And erase the swathes I cut across the river's chest In alien city in a foreign land I sit apart in gloom Even as my shadows confront me With all the naivete of fresh flowers Proudly spewing forth axioms From the limited waters of a vase Wanton destruction River changing course Meandering across corridors Only to settle and flow While bathed in my own blood I try to make new sense Of a new life With a new red-hot iron Beneath the skin Of my decadent chest
ENGINEERED ~~~~~~~~~~ Abandoned railroad signal shed Roof caved in on shoulders Walls imploded No air No freedom to breathe To act to dream to fly The railroad travels From east to west Parallel track from west to east Changing topography of the breast Bloodline flows into water hydrants From an unmitigated past Even as bush gives way to forest To hills and meadows City sprawls and vineyards You must break free of the tracks The locomotives sits back on its haunches And knows the story of the sleepers And the cinder blocks The children know at the railroad stops And yet you chose this monitored travail So as to hide in the tallest grass Bridge over water A loop to gentle the incline A star to follow on a moonless night Different noises on different tracks Like the eerie howling of wolf packs On the flats the hyena will win Because scavenging is the need Of this momentous hour When you decide to shed the walls Throw off the ceiling And stare at the sky From the rubble of The ruined signal shed With eyes embedded in A patchwork of opaque lead
VODKA & ANNYA - MY PUGS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's three Time for their afternoon walk Come let me put you on the leash Donít pick and prance I have to unlock the front door And double lock it after us On our way out we check the mailbox For credit card bills I want to hide Electricity bills and phone bills And Diwali greetings from sari shops Donít pull at your leash See how Annya heels How can it be interesting to sniff at what Another dog has left behind And Annya sees how nonchalant Vodka is Why do you chase after turbaned Sikhs And other dogs and stray cats Vodka ignores even the dragonflies Between your ablutions Time for pranks A little adventure Some memory to hoard In your doggy head Until it is time for the evening meal No guilt no long-term memory No falling in illicit love No ostracism from off-spring No need to get ahead To move on How candid How stark How poetic can An afternoon stroll be
FALL ~~~~ To diarize Distance from a changing sky Is some kind of relative movement Some disturbance Of molecules within a personal cosmos To record the thousandth falling leaf From an autumn tree Hummingbird what hymn do you hum In your fury Amidst the mercurial rise and fall Of fortunes that enthrall Some kind of movement In the everyday of life What death do you stall I can hear the trumpeter I can hear the clarion call
FROZEN BEANS ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yesterday I entered the Concord Safeway In my shirtsleeves The frozen vegetable shelves Were cold Vaporizing tear-drops In the neon lit air I bought a packet of French cut beans Back in the apartment I forgot to refrigerate the frozen beans Today I opened the packet To cook myself a mixed vegetable And lentil soup Indian style Spiced The beans had rotted They reminded me of a corpse Awaiting cremation In India's sweltering summer heat A queue In a overcrowded crematorium
NIGHT TIDE ~~~~~~~~~~ Mirrored walls Mirrored ceiling Mirrored floor Reflecting the convexities And the concavity of days And nights When I curl up On the sofa-cum-bed And cuddle the light From the first floor window Across Laguna street Through venetian blinds Silent TV In the pitter-patter of The winter rain Behind my head A refrigerator starts up The dishwasher sighs and Goes to sleep They key open a door Across the corridor Evens as night settles down By my side With the tide
Durlabh Singh. OBTAKA-THE MAGICIAN. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Moon goddess came to visit the forest last night Riding on chariots driven by the velvet monkeys Guarded by hornets and the armies of wasps Beleaguered in obscurities by Obtaka the magician. A maker of charms for the thieves and the lovers Talisman of skies from paled skins of foreheads Nail maker hooved webs of the antelopes Shifter of the sharp swords for the reddish ants. Striding solid at the hour of the midnight Giving way to doorways to enter the corridors Illuminated by the translucent light of the moon. Tender are the dreams under the wider skies Where buffalos roam in mud staked stripes Conversing with mirrored spirits of golden ghosts Witches, wizards, nymphs or other watery sports. The chameleon on converse with the blizzards Obeying the command to put spur on the lizards The crocodiles, hippopotamus, ibis and the lion Drinking at water holes under direction of wizard Rocked white, stone turned hatches for the rabbits Skin rigged, log wooded dug outs for the jackals The eel of the deep laughing on its trailed dance And Obtaka the magician roams in rugged stance.
SHAMANIC DANCE. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sing With watchwords in skies Sway With plants of high plateau Converse With shamanic powers Communicate With spirits of circles Confront Hallucinatory destinations Death, desires, disorientations. Magical modes Of spinning wheels Processed in stones Meditated in winds Quescha! cocarna! Quenchensa! Glossed intoxications in lunar pain Opening gateway for receptive brain. Flute drums and cymbals Da, dadedum, durkum!! Linked that will join To unknown sources Shadows of eagles scrawled up forces Engaged in flights Of the condor bird Conversing in songs Spaced in muted verse.
GREEN GREEN. ~~~~~~~~~~~ Green green the colour of the sea Walking with shadows of the yellow Corn flowers gone in guise of blue Keeping pace with waters in narrow. Silent silent the turbulent tales Under wayward motioned twilights Listening to calmed rippled disruptions Tracing maps in situ for twinkling fireflies. Red red rocks staid under the sun Structures wrought by the serene cores Breaking up restrictions of castered confines By the blatant blossoms on the chalky shores.


Tomas Solano


The giant was caught asleep.
We are indifferent and self-assured

One could see people trapped
as if in vertical tombs waving
white handkerchiefs like silent screams
of those calls for help that didn't arrived
Charred time-flames devouring time 

That yearning for life that moved
the handkerciefs was also a
harsh reproach to our advanced technology
capable of perpetuating horrible images,
a walk on the moon. But 
unable to save those lives

Flames in macabre dances swallowed 
the handkerciefs and their owners
without the slightest distinction

The Statue of Liberty cried
in impotence unable to prevent
the sacrifice of innocent lives
spoiled by messengers of hate and barbarism

Damn those phantom seekers
who want to hasten death
for those who cultivate progress and springtime

White handkerchiefs: tears
prevent me from seeing you
and ire prevents me from screaming 

And it is a shame I was not blind
during those moments, so as not to see
the Handkerchiefs, the barbarism

But now I feel a ray light
hope coming to my eyes
wide open and alert giving me conviction.
It will not be repeated.


Translated from the original Spanish by Julio Hurtado.


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