El Ángel
Real de Catorce
The Angel
Dark times.
A sea of people takes to the streets
burns their wings under the night:
an angel has died in prison.
Dark times.
It rains heavily
wets the earth
my voice sickens with this crying:
an angel has died in prison.
Dark times.
The days go by like sad brides
used and resentful brides:
an angel has died in prison
it's in my eyes
it's in my blood.
I go out to paint a wall.
I go out to die without fear.
What am I doing outside of Eden?
Who built this immense dovecote?
Who, in doing so, forgot
that we are homeless crows?
Or did we leave him blind?
What am I doing outside of Eden?
