A Man Has Died Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

A man has died,
In the hands of time.
Caught red-handed,
Are the arms of the clocks.

What has happened?
The jury inquires, for the secret to be bold.
The clandestine annihilation will never be too old,
To be forgotten, to be buried underneath tongues of flame.
The hands remained silent,
And the numbers stood as ardent a number should stand
And the circumference of the clock engorged.
Time never said anything.

We buried him, beside a garden
A garden of sunflower, tangerine in its sorrow
Stemming from the passing, slowly in the reflection
Of the iridescence of the mirrors facing upward,
Drinking too much of the Sunlight.
Now the night has fallen,
With the stars looking at each other,
Someday I will join the man,
Together with the stars.

And the masquerade,
Of idle hearts behind a sluggish hearse
Will be filled with such abandonment,
That even the orphans cannot take.
What importance does this man hold?
He is not servile, yet he seemed like one
Perhaps I envied his obedience,
His adhesion to commands,
How I long to be him, but only for a minute.

Now you are beneath the soil,
Together with the rocks that have no names,
Or undiscovered paths,
Time must be a silent murderer.
Time broke inside, passing through the doors
That opened willingly,
Time made no noise, no furnitures were smeared
No neighbors were disturbed,
Only him, and him alone could tell the tale,
Of how sweetly he died,
In the hands of the pendulum swings,
The ticking of the arms,
And the pacing of the seconds.