i once wrote
about a national struggle
about this sick country
this ailing people
they say there is no more
cure
and we are all left out
like scrap
that as they move forward
to another Medellin
in that gigantic rocket of
progress
we were stuck inside the
cave of a
rock
without light and
short of water
Time wearies me somehow
i feel the waves of wrinkles
in the sea of my forehead
my voice fading like a water
ceasing the cascade of
history
until then
i become an individual with
no other concern
except my own flight
towards my own
seemingly tragic ending
i dread at first
but dread can be so familiar
in every encounter in
every life of every man
i dread no more and
set myself to that pretty
surrender
like incense slowly burning
sending its perfume
filling the room with its
beautiful sadness
i see finally the peace of
the ash
silent on the foot of the
stick
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem