When they found his body
in the trash pile
near Pachachaca Bridge
in Abancay,

no one could say
just who it was
who ripped the nails
from his fingertips,

who broke his legs,
who gouged out his eye,
who finally slit his throat.

No one could say
who dumped him in the trash
like a message in a bottle.

No one could say
who it was
or why.

But someone knows
whose hand is on the throttle
and whose is on the gun.

What did the young poet say
that he should have to die?
Were the authors of this tragedy
a death squad?

Trained by the CIA?
No one can say.

Someone knew the delicate
touch of his tongue
as it brought to life each
vowel and consonant of the poem.

Someone remembers
the tear in his eye
when he spoke of the death of Lorca,
the timbre of his voice
when he spoke of The People.

Someone remembers how he dreamed
of democratic music
in the shadows of the Andes,
of poetry with wings.

Surely, the young poet knew
that poetry is love,
and in this world,
love is a dangerous thing.