Luis Benitez



That brother poisoning rivers
opens a wide breach
dividing his life.
The hand that kills the fish eggs,
the finger commanding
the world's roots to dry,
the fruit to rot before reaching his mouth,
the birds' wings to pass away in the air,
and silence to freeze the landscape of his own death,
this brother asking fungi
to appear amidst the yellow wheat,
the night to open in the heart of a high noon.
This brother who forces time
to go back until its abortion,
invoking skulls
in the middle of the feast of his own flesh,
does not know he is suiciding
in the falling bird,
he does not know he is dying
where the stalk declines
its joyful green pilaster,
where all of the fields
becomes nothing.
This brother poisoning rivers
does not know he also envenoms the red river
deep inside him,
draining in his children's blood,
he who now fills it with petroleum
in his infinite error.
The hand that raised the command
to fell the future
wrecked every hour of that day, tomorrow,
where there were gestures and faces
which looked after
that mistaken brother poisoning rivers.


(Published in Kafla Intercontinental - Jan-April 2013)