A mustached man with a
crooked mouth riding
An airplane from which red
bombs flowed instead
Of propellers four brooms
with straw at the end
He will wipe, mark the
fatality from the original
Cell of the man he will dirty the breath of the miracle,
He will allow only the
mass grave to be seen near
The catastrophe that
shouts that man is made for death
With his brooms and
moustaches abducting the joy
To be in pain to die as
gently as the flame in the lamp
In the ethereal lights of
some mornings of alliance –
The mists of the dawn are
even today crossed by
The mirages of the
airplane with brooms as ridden
Smeared as the smile of a
bluish antiradar face it
Traverses the snow-capped
mirages of our fragile
Sleep non-stop its
unwonted shadow glided across
This channel of the desert
that absorbs us tacitly
The engraving is probably
painted to hoodwink
Us once more into the fact
that the tragedy is that
Death is nothing but an
accident from outside, that
Deepens the scar of the
sky that wounds the memory
Of the stones that
contemplate the shadow of the airplane
With amazement on the
plain blackened by the sun.
But speaking, seeing we
find ourselves in our own
Words or in the rain of
bombs.
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