Beyond the intellectual world like Borges's story
When we were impersonal protesters, the city was burning
In the fire of water. Plague in villages. Yet hungry people
Silent preparation, revolution. People went down in real fire.
Water and mud became rocks. Layered marrow and blood.
The margins woke up unadorned. The scythe then the weapon.
Then chained poetry. Locks in libraries. Silent people
Walking like a doll.
Yet beyond the walls of labyrinths and magical realities, we cast lightning on the rocks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem