Here is how the memory
of others
has wrested my own memory.
I walk around balconies
and the murmuring
arteries of days
with no remembrances of myself anymore,
with the lamp
of the poured blood,
drop by drop,
flame by flame,
burned on the living memory
of these people
who were my people.
Or could it be I walk blind
among reeds as thorns,
as barren bones
splintered
under the oblivion's wall,
deep inside this soil?
I cannot even remember my own name
from straining
this silence so much,
from retaining the remains,
the shadows,
the names of others
who were gone
as shattered añañucas
unwatered
in a desert.
Sometimes, in the thickness
of a dream
I can see them raising in triumph,
collecting
the stubbles
and the tears,
smiling by justice.
But it is a dream,
a dream that fades away
in the fainted, wrenched
memory of others.
