A Stroll

Look, tombs.
No, they are bodies.
No, they are dead forms of memory.
No, they are tired forms of memory.

Look, epitaphs.
No, they are poems.
No, they are tombstones with familiar names.
No, they are voices.
No, they are words being laid to rest.

Look, eyes.
No, they are symbols.
No, they are vessels where images are broken.
No, they are stones.
No, they are the remains of your house.
Remains.

Marking Out the Ruins

Here is the space of memory
here is the game of epitaphs
names raining down on a spacious cemetery

homeland: scene of death
homeland: open field for scars

Homeland

The homeland is nothing
it is memory
dust and dread
powder on the skin
a ghost costume
that breaks through walls
and makes the whole house cough

homeland
homeland
homeland
(repeating something mute)
(addressing a skull)
(the name of a dog and a fake rose)
(a mantra to dissolve stains on the wall)

Translated by Colaborativo Ávila