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Bury the Word Jail

Today is a day

in which I don´t see bars

nor do I wish to speak of them

i wish to bury the word jail

so as to not tarnish the liberty I have.

It´s a travelling liberty

soft as music

which i listen to without hearing it

it comes from the memories

from childhood´s footsteps

in solitary forests.

Nests of mockingbirds

hanging from a bucare

hundreds of birds trilling

create sounds from a celestial piano.

A small rivulet, with the name of a fruit

offers in her sweet waters

their tropical flavor.

A pecked-down mango falls at my feet

and I raise my eyes to those of a farmer

who silently observes.

I don´t know neither how nor when he has arrived

with an indian´s stealth.

I don´t know why he insists in taking care of me

if already at eleven I know how to fend for myself.

Sometimes I ask myself

when did my struggle for the poor of my country begin.

When did my real life begin.

When so, did my suffering and my happiness thence.

And i, myself, respond that it was

Just in that moment.

 Today I wish to bury the word Jail

so as to not tarnish the liberty I own.

Today, i desire to run through the green grassland of the farm

next to that farmer.

And tell him about the fights

that he himself, with his gaze, spoke about

tell him that I still yet support it

that i will never leave this road

not alive, not dead.


Diego Salazar Luongo

Translator’s Note

Bucare: is the name of a leguminous tree, typical in South America, used as shade for coffee plants, specially in coffee plantations or wide areas where coffe may be sown.