SALTPETER SORES Poem by Ruy Duarte de Carvalho

Look at this country reducing itself to dust,
to saltpeter sores
and the blackened walls of the battlements
gnawed by the vegetate
of urine and sweat
of virgin meat sent
to dig splendors and grandeur
on the other side of the ocean.

Look at the history of a lost country:
tides of the gagged at a low ebb,
the naïve tolerance exploited
in flesh. Ask the sea,
still serene, and caressing
the same old eroded coast.

Look at the square brutal buildings:
the wharfs, people-depositories.
Look at the rivers refitted with cadavers
the rivers turbid with the dense flow
of arms and mothers of my country.

Look at the churches newly restored
on top of the ruins of a propagated faith:
white walls of an urgent dignity
hiding shackles for binding the heathen.

Look at the night inherited by these eyes
and a people condemned to kneading your bread.
Look, love, if you're attentive, you'll see
a history of stone building itself
on top of a history of death reducing itself to dust,
to saltpeter sores.