Friday, May 6
VOID
As day dims.
To Carlos Villagra Marsal.
Dry stream.
All the dry streams.
They intertwined, gushed, overflowed, cascaded.
Then, disappeared.
Small fish extinguished.
Small fish with gold scales,
bred by bodies of water that dried,
extinguished. Man leans back to sleep. His head smolders.
Dreams of his ancestors
intertwined, like water in the forest;
of water binged, bonfires,
dances in the dark, and resounding takuapu.
Man lies down to die.
Sees nobody.
Nobody sees his honey words
drip from the sky
and perforate the soil
to stow the brightest stars.
Man dimmed.
Sky descended.
They merged, void and earth,
our earth.
Void earth.
(Miguelánguel Meza,
translated from Guaraní by Elisa Taber)