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And when the night arrives,
the faraway stars
startle the horizon
and leave behind, over the branch,
the sky with its questionnaire.
And in the voices of the forest,
the souls of the dead
oscillate like interrogations;
the birds stay like absence
in the quiet camouflage of the forest,
and the leaves remain
with their drummer exercising over the air,
hiding the tired march of the troops.
And buried in the magnitude
of the eye:
the inundated jungle
that saw its green tower being yoked;
like a dry leaf
that climbs down on the prairie,
by the paths
our bodies,
protected under the bloody melody of the A.K.A. 47,
advance defending the permanence of the dawn. |
