WONDERLESSLAND Poem by Washington Cucurto

This morning I woke up saddened.
This land can't give any Wonder.
Is it impossible for this Insanityland to grow
a little bit (a little green corner) of Wonder?
This land is sadder than a woman asking for sugar.
This morning I woke up downright depressed.
And I have 35 reasons.
Someone has to be guilty of planting
the bombs around this Wonderlessland.
Without poetry readers these bombs are invisible,
they don't make noise, don't cause panic.
These are perfect bombs that kill soundlessly.
These are the modern bombs that man invented,
they kill like falling leaves.
But leaves in the forest, they aren't, falling
are bombs. In the cities, every day,
every hour, and people think that it's winter arriving.
Why would they plant so many bombs in this Wonderlessland
and in so many countries like this one, Wonderless.
Is it that they are filled with wonder seeing
how their bombs explode over our houses, on the heads
of our children, onto our beds and tables; our chairs become matches.
And what will happen to the people of this Land
who don't react? The people of this land are living in the bombs'
ruins and don't react and don't even try
to wake up sad, at the very least, like I do,
this January morning.
You go out onto the street and no one hears the bombs,
they don't see the mutilated children wrapped in the aura
of their own pain, I don't know if no one sees
them or hears them or if they don't want to see
or listen. These are the modern bombs that humanity
has invented, bombs against hearing, against listening.
Bombs that destroy everything with the greatest
possible sensibility and diplomacy.
Peaceful bombs that burn, mutilate, uproot the tree trunks
and turn the butterflies from Patagonia's Eden of dreams
into wild monsters.
They invented their silent pacifist
bombs that day after day they shoot at us with their
missile launchers and no one hears, or sees, or feels anything.
This is Insanityland, no Wonder
no green, no red kiss, no flow
of children across a field, this
is the land of total destruction,
of catastrophe approaching all that is possible.
I go into the street and scream:
Hey, you! Hey, you! Hey you, Dominicanne!
But no one hears or sees or feels anything,
I go through the streets and the bars and all
the hang outs showing people a mutilated
child and they don't see him, they don't see him.
Don't you see this child who I have by the hand?
I say to some friendly beer drinkers
at a downtown bar.
Where? Where? they say, and keep drinking.
The world is a beerzy lane.
I prefer to think that nobody hears anything
because the noise from bombings across the land
doesn't let them think.