38
I remember how I crept, in
between
Sabana grande´s memories
We were all without shirts, the
older ones
Had red breast, according to my
cousing, because
of the ingest of so many
aguardiente bottles
I imagine
I shot, to the emptyness
¡Bang ¡ ¡Bang!
There were no voices, no
reproaches
No complains, only the sound of
the bullets.
I had in my hands a black Smith
38
I like it.
As I shot it, I wondered
-where this delight
would take me-
I observed my uncles, then my
father
they all smiled like an Ennio
Morricone symphony
Shots and more of then
The sun was so penetrating
¡What a memory!
That´s I scourred my inocence
Shooting at the cans,
they were oxidated and full of
holes
Just like our souls.
He was 38 and I 14
¡Bang!
When I felt his punches,
I wondered it his hands were made
of rocks, and
That if I at 38 would have those
very same veins.
(Dark Barahona)
