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Thursday 20 September 2012

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

I see an image of a vulture eating itself.
I see many images that make no sense.
I am hardly surprised by what I see.
I know no one will believe anything I say.
What name can I give to these visions
of nature going out of control?
He owned an island
where he lived in silence.
He liked to bury his thoughts
to not spread lies or rumors.
He walked its shorelines
and gazed upon its horizons.
He tried to stop his sadness
and cover up his wounds.
The island did not heal his
heart.  There was a storm
of rage brewing.  The pain
was still raw.  He wanted
to live and die.  He peered
out to end of the sea
far away from the island.
He gagged from the silence.
I saw your reflection

in the blade of a knife in a dream.
I saw you bite the dust
in the same dream as you
held a rose between your teeth

in a one soldier firing line.
There was mist in your eyes.

You were buried under an olive tree

in an ancient prison yard

on an extremely windy day.
No one came to your rescue.

To add insult to injury
the rose between your teeth was not real.
The petals were made of plastic
like the stem of the rose.
The stars above refused to shine.
The terrible stars refused to shine.
The distant stars refused to shine.
Few could be distinguished as stars.
The plastic rose fell to the ground
just like you.

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