your death, mother, some years later.
My brothers could not reach me.
was lost then and I still aimlessly, gazing in silence
the flight of birds or a halo of light color to draw the shade.
knew almost nothing of you while you lived, you were illiterate and sad eyes ...
little more. Never heard you raised your complaint or anger. "He idolized the executioner
or polished shiny stealthy martyr's soul that you looked in your chest?
Why not escape the hell? Why me and my brothers had to
fire burned in its impact and defeats?
dried grapes over time, Mother.
tearless eyes closed and one after another opened the door of the flight.
dead until after you kept praising the criminal, you bastard
started voice and caressing hands
always absent in the skin of your offspring imploring injured.
Your only legacy was that terrible silence that was imposed on the home, the agony
advancing a few steps from the abyss and pain,
the endless litany of your constant and slave submission.
To you, mother, yes I remember, vaguely, as transit
a tormented ghost who walks along the banks of Lethe
never looking at horizon, as if nothing had
beyond the mirror of its waters. And yes there is, mother. I've seen.
I've seen women who boarded with his blood to secret flags
freedom, which took up in front of his tormentors,
sticks mop and cleaned up the wheat with them their children. Women
never humiliated before anyone because they loved neatly
repudiating hatred of others.
Women who knew and still know to look straight men never
without breaking the fragile halo majestic swan.
Today, mother, after many years of your death, still blazing anger
in too many homes. And women like you burn them.
My brothers could not reach me.
was lost then and I still aimlessly, gazing in silence
the flight of birds or a halo of light color to draw the shade.
knew almost nothing of you while you lived, you were illiterate and sad eyes ...
little more. Never heard you raised your complaint or anger. "He idolized the executioner
or polished shiny stealthy martyr's soul that you looked in your chest?
Why not escape the hell? Why me and my brothers had to
fire burned in its impact and defeats?
dried grapes over time, Mother.
tearless eyes closed and one after another opened the door of the flight.
dead until after you kept praising the criminal, you bastard
started voice and caressing hands
always absent in the skin of your offspring imploring injured.
Your only legacy was that terrible silence that was imposed on the home, the agony
advancing a few steps from the abyss and pain,
the endless litany of your constant and slave submission.
To you, mother, yes I remember, vaguely, as transit
a tormented ghost who walks along the banks of Lethe
never looking at horizon, as if nothing had
beyond the mirror of its waters. And yes there is, mother. I've seen.
I've seen women who boarded with his blood to secret flags
freedom, which took up in front of his tormentors,
sticks mop and cleaned up the wheat with them their children. Women
never humiliated before anyone because they loved neatly
repudiating hatred of others.
Women who knew and still know to look straight men never
without breaking the fragile halo majestic swan.
Today, mother, after many years of your death, still blazing anger
in too many homes. And women like you burn them.
FRANCIS VAZ
anapmares@gmail.com 
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