Three Languages

 

I think with the wound,

I feel with the idea,

and my hands tremble

from not knowing how to be silent.

The head dictates theories

that the heart disobeys.

My actions, at times,

don’t know where I dwell.

Learning to live in harmony

is writing upon the abyss.

I have read so much

that erudition has mummified me

when I do not hear the worker

nor the cry of the unpaid wage.

Una Palestina herida; la inmolación del soldado...

The unpaid salary bleeds,

and God hears the whisper of the reapers.

I know nothing of birds,

but I know my solitude longs for wings.

And on nights like this,

I envy Rimbaud:

to stop writing,

and disappear.

-ER

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