Copihue Poetry

They say that the palm trees will perish
And the water will die,
And that the houses where love once encamped
Will accompany their inhabitants in departure.
They say that morning is gathering up its robes
And packing its bags for a long separation,
And that the archipelago’s inhabitants
Have ended up in the furnaces of imprisonment.

They say.
What do they say?
Let them say.

For the child-dagger in its sheath awaits the root’s awakening,
And the jasmine-blood, bewailing the passing of twilight,
Draws out the forenoon and the victims.
And the light of the mirrors enters
Guiding the heavens to earth,
And breaking them
On the flowers of wailing.

They say.
Let them say.

That we are thirsty
So bring the hammers, let us invent a sea in their fronds,
And let us exercise our dreams on the cluster of songs,
Let us hold their waists during the siege,
And quench our thirst
With beautiful neighing.