If

to grow up we have to murder a child

don't we have to kill ourselves to recover our childhood?

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Did you know that it was after they cut off his hands that Victor Jara's guitar produced the most exquisite music?

 

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And is our sun such a giant sucker of silence, that it is only after nightfall that we hear ourselves speak?

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When will you understand that my voice is drawn from the nondescript song of sighs gathered from the dead forests of time?

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Are ghost towns peopled by memory, fear and certain intoxications

and

are fallow fields the playground of the unnecessarily murdered?

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Does the laughter one generates erase the tears one gives;

does the cancellation of flood by drought yield joy?

 

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If dawn was preparing to break like an invading army,

would we be offered the out of an eternal night?

 

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