Season Of Death, Part Two Poem by Rafael Marcelo Arteaga

Season Of Death, Part Two

Rating: 5.0


Naked in front of the fire I open the book. Corpses are not getting tired of life, like us; neither do they need to believe in these words, as me in them.

Here are the laws for the distribution of the grounds, the work market regulations, the birth books, the immigration routes; pages full of names, where there are still sounds of forgotten shackles; epidemics in regions inaccessible to the memory. The ghosts of the water, stars' interpreters, and unavoidable residents of our infantile dreams; the sublimation of the defeat, the dealing with the masses, the alliances with the enemy and the drum’s echo – joined with a soldier’s skin - that my grandfather was playing during the combat.

It is cold in our language corroded of solemnity, it rains and hails in the logic of the books, and its pestilence causes more disgust than a fly floating in the soup. Sentences that meet in the bottom of the latrines, dead words becoming agitated in the breath of my mouth and where the memory darns its clothes with sleep.

All the words have their own space, after is death; they no longer have any responsibility for us and their betrayals, their bones deserve the forgetfulness.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Jazib Kamalvi 04 December 2017

A sublime start with a nice poem, Rafael M. A. You may like to read my poem, Love And Lust. Thank you.

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