I am going to tell you about a ghost,
He comes to haunt the minds of men
Since his murder — a true hero
To a city lacking words
He once gave back his word
Even I read his diary
He was first a miner
In a city twisted by fear.
Facing a wall of cowards
He dug and drilled relentlessly.
Today his wife breathes the sandalwood smoke alone
Lost in the contemplation of her husband being burned
Does this Ramadan moon indicate his presence?
She looks for him everywhere, his death is an offense to her.
I am the mortician and I observe her madness
From one night to the next, the moon will leave, too
The storms will join the monsoon summers
The tides of human pain will ebb.
« Ah, will hope remain in this floating time?
Where will my questions go, are all my joys dead? « The widow asks.
« No one will answer you, » I tell her.
« Really? « she says, with a dark look in her eyes.
She says, « My son’s eyes will answer me. They will tell me:
Tomorrow will also end, but Mom, you are the burning sky above the earth
And I will beg him:
Son, stay close to your mother.
May my old woman’s eyes blush with shame.
I am losing my sanity and war is at the gates.
The past, his past, is in your hands, my son.
I looked for your father in this dense city.
I looked for him in the roses and the cement,
In the tops of huge trees,
In men’s clothes and in prose poems.
In universities and in brothels.
Have you no purpose, my son? Stay… Go,
Your mother will get over you leaving
I know how often your pen shivers
I know you, it seems to me.
Does not the night end, not penetrate the day?
I read your articles, as your father did.
He taught you to walk on a beach
The wind surrounded us and the sea without sponges
Was watching. The memories are rings thrown in the air.
They follow each other without making war.
But love my child is a vain protection,
And I have more regrets than the jungles have vines.
Like a family secret, keep your freedom
My son, since your father has been killed.