Portrait
Of wide honey was her
heart in sourness
and her talkative mouth
like a river wind.
The total current
of her blood in action
dragged her in a whirlpool
convinced and abundant.
She was not a stranger to the loom,
she passed through the factory,
returned to the clay,
came back from the sea
and slept by my side.
She sprouted with that
maternal radiance
that made her a honeycomb
and filled her with being.
And she learned to understand
and understood by thinking
and thought by soldiering
and militated as she grew.
She was not a stranger to the loom,
she passed through the factory,
returned to the clay,
came back from the sea
and dreamed by my side.
When the city burned,
when the tank destroyed
and her people fell
betrayed once again
I saw her a lot
through the months acting,
working, helping,
tearing her feet apart...
She was not a stranger to the loom,
she passed through the factory,
returned to the clay,
came back from the sea
and... disappeared.