Valencia Fernando Vargas (Colombia)
(My grandfather Alberto Valencia and he
to all farmers Colombia)
While running towards the shelter,
your wife pregnant, mule,
the first of your children still in arms,
dreamed a window
driven into the heart of a metropolis
where trace your own image
through loud voices,
with promises of death,
arrested your path.
You walked the trails with a machete.
You opened your shadow trails behind him
amid murderous bullets,
men with tall hats and fallen
blue handkerchief around his neck
and scapulars bright
whose light has stained the shirt.
I crossed with Pedro Antonio,
you smiling and whistling like an angel in a cage.
The murderers could not follow your trail,
the pájaroverde and mancogutiérrez
hesitated before the magical glow of your machete
that lit up the blood
of vultures and crows.
is why every time he spoke,
proud and generous,
an injured blackbird singing followed you
when brought men in the Plaza.
A mule crosses the steep edges,
dreamed a more dignified and blatant land,
least complicit silence,
as New Creek Cemetery sad.
With machete puliste land on which
your children build their homes.
village was now a dull city
and on arrival was just a village
to grow vegetables and fruits.
grip the blood of each of your children,
saved them from bullets, the killings and hunger
with dignity peasant
workers willing to silent.
Amid the sadness always by your side esuvo
a woman vital to keep fighting,
simple woman and noble
the only one capable of deciphering the brightness of your eyes
analogous to the edge of your machete.
In some people missed the mule.
lost in a city rested wounds
the dust of the mountain was healing.
You came to the world of walls,
invented this strange circle of machines.
Your machete was watching out
siding in the middle of your bed.
blank wall was the promise and victory.
Epic Cinderella Friends
dead and remembered.
One day, your body did not contain more
both road and trail.
Your silence, increasingly diaphanous immortalized in the depths of his innocence,
the exchange of glances with the ghosts
you left on the mountain.
Now enjoy your time
front window one day dreamed,
same mythical foundation your
stuck with a black pin
in the heart of the metropolis.
Now I know what both look in the sky
repeated
cinema through your window:
're looking Man in his glory
and in his madness,
're remembering the victory
not yet reached
but dreamed one night of fire
when aroused fear your wife pregnant
and gave you to escape and signal
huge fire in your machete .
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