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Carlos Duguech


(Translated by María Eugenia Bestani)

the opaque white of


nor the still gaze of

the dead;

nor the hopeless


of all blood

already defeated and degraded;

nor the clangor of the iron


nor the insolent whistle of


nor the speeches of the


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


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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