Sunday, January 24, 2010

Jorge Carrera Andrade

COMRADES: the world is built upon our dead
and all our feet have created all the roads.
Also, beneath every sky, there is not an inch of shadow
for those of us who made the cupolas bloom.
Bread, blonde grandchildren of the sower, a roof
- foliage of clay and sun that shelters the family -
the right to love and walk freely are not ours:
we are the slave traders of our own lives.
Happiness, that sea we've never seen,
the cities we'll never visit
we lift up our clenched fists like fruit,
announcing the most serious harvest of all time.
Only the right to die, comrades of the world!
A hundred hands divide the offerings of the earth.
Already the time has come to hurl ourselves into the streets and plazas
to reclaim the Work we ourselves built.

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