I will never stop pursuing you, sacred delirium. Not even when the peace of the unjust comes. Nor when I awaken in the darkness among the rubble of desire.

It is not in fire, not even in the earth, where time has written: I know its fugitive book.

All that I pretend to sing does not belong to life.

The tide goes on asking and I give rise to darknesses, until someone hands me over its limits.

I go on searching what I searched.

I don't know whether the poem is useful against fear. I don't know if some day there will be someone who can love those who reign. I don't know if man will go on officiating at devastated altars.

But we shall begin to retrieve everything that silence owes us. We shall share our thirst.

The true deprivation is what leads us to the origin. Light is so recent.

My words fall like seed. My eyes have been sown. Here on my side, in this populous desert, someone ignores the hand needed to die.

Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún