Ballaibo
Evildoer, you: some thousands of miles
away you chose to die without us listening
to what you can finally reveal to us. Were you
ever the false person of some false
name, powerful and flaunting,
this man your big brother the color of money,
the shape of what cannot be? Is he your older
kin true and true, one of the same flesh
and so compelling the logic of misdeed
that this last love for a suffering land
is nothing but a mirage for a wicked man
that knows so much? What fallible fear is
within the walls of a palace with its
rotten pillars, and you know that?
Somewhere in the crevices of those heights
from floor to floor are the dark shadows
only Jose Pidal knows and you, dying man,
you know that. And now you have left us
with nothing but your dead silence. Did you
leave anything written from somewhere,
on the edges of toilet paper a murderer
wipes his hands with, him murdering
hopes that are yet to come, and now
with your death, aborted before
they will ever see the light of our blighted lives?
We now wish you were more honest
with us. We are your brothers and sisters, too,
and in the twisted arguments of our bloodlines,
we are born of the same flesh, the same
faith for a callous, cancerous, corrupting land.
Hon, HI/
Jan 26/12
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