Leslie
You left at the wrong time.
The news burst into a thousand pieces
still floating in the air,
gunpowder on my lips.
Incredulous, I touch your letters
filled with memories,
scent of home, ink
on your fingers.
Your death was not a drill.
The pomegranate spilt seeds on you,
a tin soldier without a fight,
and you lying in that forest,
asleep, while I feel
wind, sea, dawn, life:
I am as dead as you are.
It’s useless to cry out. Don’t scream!
Hanging in cages
on the dismal wall
we can only
sing, sing.
gerardorodriguezsalas.com 