I beg permission to trample emotions
I am writing to only one of the twenty-eight
outraged lovers of Peru
(who have now become forty-one)
Perhaps I stand alone in wanting
to be certain that there are bodies
that the bullets didn’t harm or leave cold?
That there are deceased similar to those, to those that
sometimes result unharmed, when the martyr
is completely transformed by martyrdom?
So much so, that his retina took in the casing
that killed the assassin?
What fault do I have in wanting to know today the person
who no longer exists?
In wanting to know how many barefoot kids
were in the school,
How many elderly remained
sitting in the walkway,
How many sisters sell in that spot
that which matters to no one anyway
How many names of girls were tallied
in the evenings
or if it was just one that kept him from sleeping.
I will speak in a low voice near the place where they buried you
That many have remained quiet and she
But these are the emblems worn by all the defeated.
It is because the passion of this predisposition
Has been forgotten by humankind.
Listen: they said that death attracted you more
than your own spine.
That remains true beyond doubt.
Song for Aida
Against a background of green paint chipping
a rude white cross stands out
shields surge in a line
In the embroidered backpack, full of pebbles
the boy is missing.
The rebellious woman has become an atom
Violet bruises call our attention
One more jarring movement and order established.
She is one with her flag
contemplating her Wiphala.
We now are all brothers
A bandage falls apart
as if exhibiting his thigh finely sculpted
by labor both urgent and primitive.
You realize how we need each other.
Today they carried away Aida.
Meanwhile, in the hills,
the female relatives rock in their arms the hard stones
Barely twelve noon… and already scheming!
Not allowing even a slit!
They close ranks!
Into pure heart!
They want to hug you comrade.
They Sat on Stones
They are not women, they are vigilantes
Who sat on the stone
Out of love for the land, and thus
their discussion carried their dreams
They are not women, they are warriors
Who put pardons in storage
Out of loathing for the sky, and besides
they didn’t give in to beatings or insults
They are the mothers of martyrs
Who remain complete and their fabric is sincere
They become fired-up miners
in tunnels where explosion is imminent
They are moms, sometimes, of traitors
Who don’t know the monologue of power
They discuss the commands of the powerful in conversation
And their desire is adulterous and parricidal
I understand them and even approve of their reasoning
They have made of suffering a work of art
They are the birthers of this battle for Humankind
Alex Anfruns is a professor, an educator, and a Spanish militant anti-war activist. Co-author of the documentary, “Palestine the Besieged Truth” (Agencia Catalana de Cooperación, 2008), he has lived in Spain, France, and Belgium — the country where he worked as a journalist (Association des Journalistes Profesionnels, AJP). His articles have been translated and published across a wide array of international media outlets. He has worked as a political analyst at Telesur, RT, and Abya Yala TV. The topics he investigates include international relations between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres and development in Latin America. He can be found on his website AlexAnfruns and on twitter.