Iriabel Lazo Alvarado

MARTYR OF POVERTY

The marble boils in the bitter chewing gum

where the white plumage curled up the hungry.

The weight carried your ribs,

the viscera roared, wounding the esophagus.

You suffocated the night and impotence danced the waltz,

Guardian of the innocent,

in your hands hunger withered

when you wanted to be a goddess to multiply the manna.

Many hid their hands;

those with high collars, the most.

The army of coffins has walked,

they forgot your childish gaze

you were defeated by the howls of the elderly,

and the funereal voice of the viscera.

You fasted on the offering of food

and the tidal waves dried up your dreams.

Modernity caught wasted children.

Their glances and heartbeats bled

and their crying was an open sea.

The rulers forgot,

on the way to barefoot tragedy,

and your corners of hope ended,

and you died with the dead of dry flesh

dry flesh of the wall.

Author: Iriabel Lazo Alvarado

Tilarán. October 17, 2024