You arrived with the paddle
and there was,
in this the place one killed
without reason, where one killed
without slackening
behind the door of the prison.
yes, there was that
that the desire had elected,
now in prey with the overwhelming pressure.
There was, ready with treason,
thousand hands which concealed
of my memory,
of my free blood, old covetousness
that the blackness of the nights nourishes
in waiting of the paddle.
You arrived and we were there,
waiting in silence the hour
massacre.
Will the man be crucified?
The flames will consume
our houses,
our small?
All that because our dreams considered
the arrival of the paddle?
But you arrived,
and we were there,
to ask us from which would come
that which the desire had elected.
From which would it come?…
It will not come.
The sun will not rise
and at the bottom of the house
already are inserted in death
steps of my children,
reduced to silence.
From which would it come?…
It will not come,
because our prison is blind,
without attic window,
because our way is inserted and lost
in a pit,
because we are without power
and without force.
But you arrived
and we were there.
Such is the history of our yesterday
and its taste is bitterness;
such is our slow walk, the procession
of our dignity:
our only good until the hour when will rise
finally a free paddle.