The eve of the crime the cobbled paving was
The afternoon,
The sun violently fallen towards the west,
When, from the window facing the plaza,
You saw
Black riders crossing.

Remote, pale, silent
They went
At a slow, crimson pace,
In a procession of fugitive monsters,
Their hesitation the place in which
To bring bereavement.

Dusk falling about them,
With dry strides,
With bewilderment, in the dust,
You might think they were
Sleepwalkers crossing their shadows
With knives.

You remember them, brutal with cold
And at night, falling on
Fragile shacks,
Surrendered
Like the nakedness of virgins;
Breaking bodies, staining walls with blood
And then disappearing,
Tigers without nightmares,
After the howl of the air and the deaths.

In every place their solitary track.
The tatters, the sharp edge of their teeth, the darkness.