(Translated by María Eugenia Bestani)
the opaque white of
bones;
nor the still gaze of
the dead;
nor the hopeless
brown
of all blood
already defeated and degraded;
nor the clangor of the iron
gunners;
nor the insolent whistle of
bullets;
nor the speeches of the
winners
nor the persistent griefs
of the others;
nor the rags erected
in flags
of a white and
sorrowful surrender;
nor the ostentatious rubric of
those who sign as
gods
the acts of capitulation
of those who lose,
they always lose;
nor the newspaper
pages that strive
in titles of vain obeisance
to those who win
while cornering,
impudence of the office,
to those who lose,
they always lose;
nor gold medals
or silver
The bronze or of
crude goldsmithing
that kindle in the
heroic breasts
of battles;
nor the new degrees that
are added and added
death to death;
nor the prayers that
no god attends
engaged as they are
in being such gods;
not even repentance,
or trauma
of consciousness
of the veteran of
so much death,
of so much trench
sordid and steaming,
of so much flesh
corrupted by shrapnel.
None of that, nothing,
absolutely nothing,
will help at the time
when you ask
the reason for all war.
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