Elsa Cross

THE LOVERS OF TLATELOLCO
.
They barely emerge from the shadow
Their mumurs raise gentle signs
at the foot of the foundation.
Their white tennis shoes gleam.
.
Far from those stones,
returned to one another,
they forget in their lips
the scream of the massacres,
chests opened by dint of obsidian
or bayonet--
.
Indifferent to the shadow that covers them,
the young lovers murmur or stay silent,
while the night grows over the ruins,
bolts down the plinths of the temples,
the inscriptions.
.
Over there the urn
with two skeletons embracing
in their dusty deathbed,
beneath the crystal where the flowers
of an offering are drying.