He stands there
in a raincoat of humility--
the rain is
his rain, and the trees
he thinks about are rubber
from their roots
to where he sees the branches
sweat. Clouds
always threaten war
to the blind; and the leaves wave
goodbye to the statues of their comrades;
Lorca wrapped in a sheet.
His eyelids hide women, hands
and breast--he left his mother in Peru--
thousands of young women in Venezuela
weep for him at night.
His suspenders are outraged
by the recitation of rosaries,
and his hair turns yellow
when he considers electricity.
He wakes from a nightmare of factories
to find one-half of Spain crush the other--
while the whole country sleeps.

Now the hills of La Mancha
so ordinary. As he walks,
his hat's a windmill
his tears drip through.



Copyright © Ramón E. Martínez, 1999, 2009.  All Rights Reserved.