Apolitical
Intellectuals
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be
asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask
them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be
questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked
nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no
place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did
you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical
intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of
silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be
mute in your shame.
You have a gun
And I am hungry
You have a gun
Because I am hungry
You have a gun
Therefore I am hungry
You can have a gun
You can have a thousand bullets and even another thousand
You can waste them all on my poor body
You can kill me one, two, three, two thousand, seven thousand times
But in the long run
I will always be better armed than you
If you have a gun
And I
Only hunger.
My
desire for you could be called
a
fiery colt
because
it leaps from my eyes
into
your body's countryside
It
gallops over you restlessly
for
minutes hours whole centuries
With
its hooves it goes stamping
through
the foam of your soul
so
that you'll know it's there
But
don't believe it wild
If
it prances accross your chest
or
stops and rears up at your breasts' waterfall
from
where your body is flowing into the world into the sea of my hands
Look
how gentle its step is and the mist of its gait
as
it passes over your belly trembling
See
it also at night
resting its name on your thighs
and
raising its eyes to the moon which sofly strokes it sonorous hair
Hear
it galloping over you without ever knowing whether you know it and love it
So
that it's epic wont go up in smoke
MY
DESIRE FOR YOU
MY
LOVE
STRIDES
THROUGH
FIRE
Satisfaction
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
Only in this way do men become men,
women become women,
fighting day and night
for people and for life.
And when these lives come to an end
the people open their deepest rivers
and they enter those waters forever.
And so they become, distant fires, living,
creating the heart of example
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
Before the Scales,
Tomorrow:
And when the enthusiastic
story of our time
is told,
who are yet to be born
but announce themselves
with more generous face,
we will come out ahead
--those who have suffered most from it.
And that
being ahead of your time
means much suffering from it.
But it's beautiful to love the world
with eyes
that have not yet
been born.
And splendid
to know yourself victorious
when all around you
it's all still so cold,
so dark.
And Still I know : there
are many ways
to give life for life .
The important thing :
to give it as it must be given !
