viernes, 6 de junio de 2014

The kids we used to be

‘En Comala comprendí
que al lugar donde has sido feliz
no debieras tratar de volver.’

-J. Sabina

The ashes
of the last revolution
in the back of your neck
and your long hair
as saying
don’t ever go back to the places
where you’ve been happy,
you’ll only find dust

That’s how I remember you.

That it was me
the one who forgot
was the accusation
she kept on repeating
 before dying.
That she loved me deeply
was the frozen guilt
hammering her empty eyes.

And I remained silent
out of decency or out of fear,
by that time
I couldn’t tell.

No one ever warned me
how sharp the edge
of loneliness could be.
History won’t kill me
karma probably will.
No one prevented me
from its dirty teeth.

But my love,
after all this time
I swear to you:
in that pile of bones,
I saw the faces of the kids
we used to be;
I have nothing left
but that memory
and the silence of death
beating my ears
in this room…


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