Más Lejos, Más Cerca

Further Away, Closer

Someone woke up
thinking that the fog
was taking special care
to hide the crime,
from there came a maddening
petroleum vapor.
It was on Wall Street.

It was me who understood
peering into the fog
that it was the crime disguised
as concrete with windows.

That it enlarged
losing the idea of its height
seeing them intervene armed
towards the sky of others.

Wall Street blood bank,
spider with tentacles that coldly spin
the death of others.

Towns that do not resign
to die without a trail of glory and joy;
that do not resign
to already want to be past in life.

It was me who heard
a restless bone crunch
trying to escape
from those secret accounts
where they were buried.

Calculated thefts
by your diplomacy of horror
that would like armed intervention,
even in the stars.

But still burns through America
the pulse of agonizing nations
that shout at me with the same language
plotting their mortal shaking.

So one day your 13 horizontals
will see vanish
in a liberating flame of oil
ignited by
towns that do not resign...
...that do not resign.