MY VILLAGE  

My village is cold each day of the year
it is hungry, thirsty and young

My village is a piece of wood
from a bed that does not suffice for four or for eight

My village has rain and wind
it has faces sketched with ash
it has hands that applaud for not dying

My village has no name
it has no state nor states
it has no streets nor smiles

My village has no God
the sea-foam and salt conquered the saints
the water from the taps is purer than a church

My village is a summary of weary love,
a biography without limits nor angles
a recent cadaver
a cup that never will be filled

My village has children who appear ancient
and ancients that robbed their years
it has mothers with submissive eyes
and men who are cut in half

My village has trees without trunks and without leaves
it has roses that change their color
for a kilo of bread

My village is a wound to the temple
a sick guitar that is deaf and mute
a song of numbers
definitely sad
definitely bitter
definitely forgotten
in the big dream of life

© 2007 Mario Meléndez