Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Elsa Cross

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.

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