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More living dead than ever. Voice

Here in the night
and still the sun,
I always feel the sun
passing through the eyelids I no longer have.
This vision makes me more alive,
orange light because my eyes and body are.
Closed eyes facing the morning sun.
Open eyes saw closed eyes.
Closed eyes of bone, with memory.
They said my eyes of a female person
should have stayed at home.
They said I was no woman, no person, no nothing.
August in the plaza heats and I smell my body alive.
I smell and breathe.
A small object opens its way across my flesh,
for being red, for being a female person, for being free, for being.
That a bullet hole
can have diverse historical interpretations,
doesn’t make the head turn any less.

They kill me but they can’t,
because here in the night
still I see,
I always feel the sun and hear the world
with the ears I no longer have.
Listening makes me more alive,
lives of other people because I am in them, though I am dead.
Others close their eyes for mine when facing the morning sun.
August heats and I smell my living body in theirs.
I remember and learn.
Their days open their way across my flesh,
for being strange, for being nonconformist, for being free, for being hopeful.

I want to die but I can’t
because here in the night
I think, I always feel
with the brain I no longer have.
Recalling makes me more alive,
because in my eyes these other eyes were promised,
those of the ones who today close them to the sun.
A heartbeat clutched to pit of the stomach for 65 years
allows itself to be confused with a shout, a laugh or a moan.
I smell their living bodies in myself
which breathes and smells through them now.
A small object opens its way across their my flesh,
for being curious, for being just, for being creative, for dreaming.

They want to kill them but they can’t,
because here in the night we dream together,
we always feel life and beauty,
with everything we don’t have.
Stones don’t come on their own to the walls,
threatened bones bring them
threatened with being separated from their fear.
A wall is rectified
bringing its stones back to the ground
and thinking the stones one by one,
slowly.
Feeling makes us more alive
because it multiplies the paths.
Augusts all full of living dreams
that I smell and breathe.
A small object awakes me in their flesh,
for complaining, for wanting, for thinking, for claiming.

They kill him but they can’t,
because here in the night,
however we know
that some people always feel
with the dead which live inside them.
Dying makes us more alive,
it makes visible the negation which is sought.
The caution of a body which keeps itself warm
through the warmth of other bodies
is not a guarantee of avoiding
the planning of oblivion and restoration
over the same territory.
The August of another century warms less
but our remnants are more breathed and smelled.
A small object opens its way across our body,
for sharing out the lands, for eating, all of us, for working together
and for wanting to feel the world as ours too.

To talk to the obedience of the compatriot or foreign policeman.
Reddened eyes search for marks on shoulders.
What is an enemy in the short time of humans?
A body with some photographs in the pockets
which deserves to be shot down,
bloodstained under a certain look.
I then turn my woman’s gaze.

They’re going to kill us many more times but they can’t,
because here in the eternal night,
we still won’t die
if some body is still living
killing us, bringing us back to life again.
Living makes us more dead
because we are more bodies to bury and silence.
August heats more dead living than ever.
We breathe and smell
that like a small object they will duplicate almost the whole of us
so we can work without asking or begging,
so we can be living dead without a small object
to open up our flesh and make us dead living
so we can be living but dead for ever.
So that nothing changes, so that we won’t see,
hear, feel, think, want, remember, die, live.
The sound of this lament can be a memory,
but it can also be a present or a premonition.

I didn’t kill other faces,
neither the faces of hunger like ours,
nor the satisfied ones.
Neither my death,
my night,
did I want as a sign.

And still the sun,
with orange light.
August heats.
Beauty.