They came from the north, but no one knows when they were wiped out.
From the cave of music they made their rounds,
raising their pentagram arms; they all croaked under lock and key.
The old men claim to have seen them devoured by the sea.
THE DAY LABORERS howl with the sound of war in the poppy fields, music for bull calves, train whistle that carries the breath of the soldier suckled by Chernobyl.
There’s so much slackening the thread, Sipofene, such fire in the crotch, …………humiliated boots, …………metallic hands, …………headquarters’ silences.
What will the dust bring, if we’re always dead in the presence of the violet stockings’ nudity? It is a field of iron, Sipofene, …….a keloid field.
THE WORLD SHOULD BE A BETTER PLACE, with more poems and tulips; no resection of the migrant who flees in order to survive the harassment of offices that are after his right thumb.
Tell us what emporium has robbed you? How many prisons have you trod? Who knew the truth of your sandstone?
The cherry and blue meeting houses were part of the eclipse. We speculated up until the year of your birth.
NO ONE CLAIMS THE ASHES of an angel of clay in the jaws of the common grave, no one asks for his minimum wage at the sides of Cadmus’ ships, and no one deserves to die by stone on a high tension cliff, but there go the 50 thousand orphans who have lost their hunger walling in the cattle.
IT IS CALLED RAGE, Sipofene, the substance that undermines us breaks us deludes us the exhausted gaze of serfs;
it’s called weariness, Sipofene, this solitude without a capital these lead hillsides, paradise of the dissidents.
Traducciones de Cody Copeland para "The Deserts and the Seas: Zazil Alaíde Collins", entrevista de Dylan Brennan en Numéro Cinq(agosto, 2016).