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
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.