I wonder if Trumpet sings in this gray winter, cold as the embrace of a betrayal waiting behind the door, a gale of omens and sorrows. If he’s still spilling into gold feathers, if the mountains still feel moved by his singing. I wonder if I’ll ever hear him again. If he’ll return someday, if my tears will no longer remember him. If he still sings upright on the abject men, the faceless ones. If he only knew that he was singing, the meaning of his song. To sing because you’re happy, because you’re sad. To sing because they did cut off your wings, your legs, your hands. To sing even though they cut off your tongue, although your voice became a grotesque gurgle. To sing that they did cut off your tongue already, to sing because of that. To sing because they have cut off somebody else’s, to sing because the other can no longer do so. To sing for those who departed, for those who remain, for those who want to leave.

Let us go then, but singing.


Before You Open Your Eyes: Catastrophe



The shadows were running away
            screaming, terrified in unison
            some say they were escaping from their bodies.

Cobblestone streets of blood, insulting signs
with warnings of death. The Palace of Hell.
Welcome home , excuse the mess. We’re cleaning up.

Don’t look at the tiled bodies
Don’t look around you
Don’t ask stupid questions
Beware of the dog
of the gun
of the badge
of the tie
of the badge
of the badge.

Don’t you touch anything. Do not answer,
even if you know.
Do not ask what’s behind.
God’s doors are tied with pulleys:
perhaps is better not to try to open the windows.
Walk slowly, if possible , without advancing .
You know the system, right?
I’m just doing my job.
I’m sorry.
They will be fine.



The shadows were running away
            screaming, terrified in unison
                          escaping from their bodies.
The day they tore our eyes off
How the tailor laughed not knowing what he was doing!
Not enough tape to measure Catastrophe’s waist,
Catastrophe became angry.
Until there were no more tailors.



Where’s the one who asked for the weaver?
Do you remember that movie where The Fates were weaving
the evening dress that Catastrophe used to wear
to take cocktails and lives?

Eevery night, after quenching her thirst,
her dress faded.

It was Catastrophe, narcissus actress in love
who believed herself the moon,
she used to appear cruel and naked
at the night owl theater, spectator
with sad eyes and a saddest top hat.
Catastrophe, whose dress faded away
every night after quenching her thirst
used to play every night
the same part.

The shadows were running away
            escaping from their bodies.



I asked you not to turn your head right over.
All birds are vultures here
all bodies are carrion.
There’s no singing bird
that doesn’t take the truth with its black legs
to ink it up with fear.

There are no bars, as you shall see
the landscape is dressed in purple:
the plants under your feet are just arborescent bodies.
There’s a spring very close to the eruptions,
stay away from it.
You don’t want them to rip off your face before it’s time,
take the fear necessary to stay right where you are.
Alas these souls, where are they going with no crook, no future and no shade!


Turn on your candles, mourning Night.
The air smells of fresh fruit, of dead bodies blooming.
The spring splashes of rage.
Seas of hungry mouths emerging, betrayed.
The army of constellations gets ready.
Orion prepares his arrow.


Catastrophe was born from her mouth,
she slipped from her skirts and made it to the foam
and let her shoulder blades to immerse themselves
like swans.

A certain night, under the stars
she felt the eye of Orion upon herself, pointing at her.
It was not the end nor the beginning:

Once upon again.

3 thoughts on “Sing For Those Who No Longer Sing

  1. Prelude was inspired by Herman Melville’s tale “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo” (1853) and the Ayotzinapa incidents, back in Mexico. Unfortunately, police brutality and narco power are still extending their long arms.


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