The landmine maker

I don’t remember your voice.

I can’t picture your face if I don’t look at photographs

                                                                                                 And even then it’s hard.

I don’t know what color are your eyes –was it green?

All of that never really stuck in my mind. It is not what you are.

You are a feeling

A forest, a deep sea

You are the hound that makes the foxes run away

A landmine maker, forgotten killer of young and brave little soldiers

A sprouting tree –I’d say a baobab

The fourth or fifth shot of a hundred archers

A question mark trapped in my lungs

That moves with every breath

                                                               Slowly

                                                                              Without passion

That dies with every breath and is born with the next

Unaware it was ever there.

13 de mayo de 2014