To Roque, to Argueta, to Cea, to Quijada Urias
In what station hotel
will our shadows touch the lips of the abyss
and stretched but on the iron bed
the flames of hell fall
in waves on our bodies
What will remain of us who were beaten with clubs
and were children playing with the waves
and counted the stars with a wand of grass
What will remain of us
riding like Achilles on the froth of things
wreathed with the green of the impossible
knocking in despair at the gate of hope
worming our way through the apple of poverty
Our mistake was to be born in this time
perverse hollow coded fettered unleashed
Our brotherhood has and will have no temple
no garden bright with the tree of good
no mahogany chair in the Academy of Arts
no collection of our works with letters of gold
no innocent girl who will cause us no pain
Our brotherhood will have
its crown
its bullet-hole in the forehead
Our brotherhood will hold up its numbered
identity card
What will remain of us
shadows buffeted by the wind beneath the
street lamps
in Santiago Guatemala Rio or Paris
Roberto Armijo (1937 - 1997) El Salvador
Translated Jo Labanyi
Source: Poems from El Salvador, in Index on Censorship, vol. 7, 3, 1978 [Sage Journals]
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