The town I grew up
had an oasis of hypocrites
who drowned their solitude
in alcohol. Years later, its bystanders
brought a drought of truth
and everyone drank
their sorrows with blood.
The town became a river
of double knives, machetes
and rifles.
Solitude, what were you?
Its people became bait,
the passersby fishermen
and her,
a desert
in the seclusion of care.
Her tears
became roads to the eyes
of innocence,
but evil
oh evil
were bridges
arching from marrow to marrow
corroding
spines
&
craniums.
Solitude, what were you?
Its crops became bones;
its ground flesh,
meat,
guts;
Mutilated limbs,
a public transportation,
targeted to the poor;
Its sidewalks
derision,
rape,
odium cemented
on the hearts of people's steps;
and
if it wasn't enough,
its buildings
became
a graveyard for the unborn.
So I ask you Solitude:
what were you?
--
The elders said:
You were a rose
in bloom
of a desert to plant your roots.
You were
a she
on-the-roads of innocence',
but
you never found her',
no,
not in the town where
I grew up.
