Madres

They go
in a stubborn round
elderly women of wind
of a cold that wears out
tackling forgetfulness
playing with pain

They go
in a dizzy round
rowing in silence
on the shores of a time
of grays and absences
of fog in the voice
They go standing with high wounds
inviting memory
and they will walk against dirt and forgiveness
even if the crows last
this disgust rains
and the feet weigh

They go
tanned handkerchiefs
of immense cries
of winter suns
telling the screams that no one shouted

They go
in a cradled round
tired ankles
and iron ovaries
birthing the courage that no one birthed
They go standing with high wounds
inviting memory
and they will walk against dirt and forgiveness
even if the crows last
this disgust rains
and the feet weigh