Al Qabri Ramos
Medals of Demerit
I know the pain without a flag
and the healing without a banner
I don't know how to write poems
about war, nor defend anyone
with bladed weapons,
I don't even know the weight of
soldiers' boots, when they settle between
sweat and fatiguein the ditches,
to question themselves as to
why a name and a homeland.
That in warlike motives there is no art.
But I know the dry cry of nightmares
that is fulfilled in the glottis,
of the fear of men
in the countries where the slaughter
took place in the square.
I know the care, the anguish
and the misfortune of mothers
when their children suffer from hunger
and drink misery without rhyme,
made at the expense of
so much affluence from others
(what others are we in a concrete disarray),
or the substances that waltz neons appetizing
and prostituted boys in the streets of Aldoar,
when the raid van interrupts their
frugal wandering.
I don't even dare to interrupt the bulimia
of some at the pace of the world,
nor do I know about the brands
of refrigerators that turn into forklift bins
voids, filling voids,
in the emptiness of every bulimic,
nor the lack of courage in
accepting repeated mistakes
But I know, on the other hand,
that tomorrow the sky will have limits
For those who have the alarm clock for 6 a.m.
that the day has 24 hours
and man wants to inhabit more planets,
and that the rivers are defiled, and our souls,
apparently not either,
I know that the open wounds
will have betadine and serum
And I also know that you cry
and that I cry for all the "six"
and "not-sixes" of humanity.
I don't know how to write poems about love
But I know that it exists
somewhere between consciousness
and sleep and deep inside
we know there are no poles for such a flag
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