Monday, September 14, 2009

Rosario Costellanos

We kill that we love. The rest never lived.
No one is as close to us. No other is so hurt
by forgetfulness, absence, mere nothingness.
We kill that we love. Enough choking breath,
of breathing through another’s lungs!
The air is not enough
for both, nor the earth
for our bodies entwined.
Hope's ration is small
and sorrow cannot be shared.
Man is made of solitudes,
a deer in flight, bleeding,
pierced by an arrow.
Ah, but hatred,
its insomniac glare of glass:
repose and menace.
The deer lowers its head to drink,
discovers a tiger image in the water.
The deer drinks the water, the image. It becomes
before devoured (astonished accomplice)
equal to its enemy.

No comments: