Few more poems of Roque Dalton
Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.
And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.
And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.
Small hours of night….
When you know I’m dead don’t say my name
because then death and peace would have to wait.
Your voice, the bell of your five senses, would form
the thin beam of light my mist would be looking for.
When you know I’m dead, say other words.
Say flower, bee, teardrop, bread, storm.
Don’t let your lips find my eleven letters.
I’m sleepy, I’ve loved, I’ve earned silence.
Don’t say my name when you know I’m dead:
I would come out of the dark ground for your voice.
Don’t say my name, don’t say my name.
When you know I’m dead don’t say my name.
The White Tunnels that Lead to the Sea
to the elderly poor.
Nor do the rays that make possible
a woman’s beautiful hair
mean anything to them.
they return to their past
illumined by shadows
of broken bottles, and they don’t
that their wounds
have stained spring’s tunic purple.
The young people
who love them
and who fight
to give them back
their dignity of offended gods
to the highest class