To the work of Antonio Skármeta, one of the greats.
All we have left is the night and a huge round moon a few
days a month.
Yanira Marimón.
Beside the flames I remembered when the guards opened the border, the running towards the exit, young Arabs, slender blacks, and weak old women curled up towards the sign (((Passport Control))), fierce, thirsty consumers of airplanes, hungry for seat belts, signs (((Mandatory Smoking))), (((Whiskey and cigars at very low prices))). Me in the same place, thinking that maybe it is not appropriate to run. That those who run are sprayed with bullets. Many are no longer characters in a story, but simple outraged passengers. They had killed that humanity, that multitudinous existence, all back to their own navels, their pilgrimages, worship of incomprehensible gods. Worried about their guts, their make-up, their suitcases. Back again to the cloudy day, to the abusive smoke, the dry mouth, the sticky self-pity of the survivors. Running towards the entrance, papers in hands, stumbling breath, biting at each other. Feeling like crying. To feel anger at oneself for belonging to a species that still causes hope, despite the massacres that affect the continents. To feel long and humid sadness for all the sentimental commitments, our small obligations, ideals accommodated to social and economic security.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
