They marked the door with knife stabs,
belched out our names,
spit on the mailboxes,
threw sulfur in the garden.
But we, we wove the blankets. We were singing at a whisper, in the dark.
Pale,
bathed in dust,
we kept scraping the floor.
Inside there was a bird that shivered
injured, blind, soaked.
Luis Enrique Belmonte (born 1971) Venezuela
Translated by Guillermo Parra
Source: Typo Issue 18
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