Caen tres niños
y abundan las banderas.
A smear of red iron
on his knee.
Silt seeping into
living rivers.
Son tan preciosos
pero abundan las banderas.
Our glory possesses so many colors!
The children wait for us,
but the clouds of dust take them.
Duermen tres niños
y abundan las banderas.
The children call out for us, their fathers.
They are muscles in our own hearts,
but the rocks are jagged.
El hierro ahora cobra vida.
Nos lo explican,
pero no hay por qué.
Abundan las banderas.
I fearfully inscribe these first few words, from my vantage point at this place which is not a place, as Michel de Certeau tells me that "Writing is born from and deals with the acknowledged doubt of an explicit division, in sum, of the impossibility of one's own place. It articulates an act that is constantly a beginning: the subject is never authorized by a place, it could never install itself in an inalterable cogito, it remains a stranger to itself and forever deprived of an ontological ground. . ."
Thus I timidly desist, more than a little frightened of falling through this virtual plane into the infinite circus-like depths of the magnetic unwritten, itself the only real.
Dear Rob,This is a beautiful poem! I had not seen my messages for a long time, and so had not... read more
on Red-Rojo