I know that this blog sometimes appears to be an obituary page in some wierd newspaper, but, nonetheless, Mr. Rojas is still dead. More on his life here.
And no more tears; this transparent woman,
who today is sealed away,
this woman who now is walled
in a niche grave
like a madwoman chained
to a cruel bedstead in an airless room
with neither boat nor boatman, among faceless strangers,
this woman who, alone, is
who held us all in the heaven
of her body.
be her womb.
And nothing nothing else; that she bore me and made me
a man with her seventh birth
her figure of fire
and of ivory
in the trials of poverty and sadness
and she knew
how to hear through the silence of my childhood the sign
be the fruit of her womb.
Let others go instead of me
I can't go now to put
the red carnations there
the carnations of the Rojases ‚— mine and yours ‚—
on the painful thirteenth day of your martyrdom
those family members who are born at dawn
and who are reborn ‚— let them go to that wall for us for Rodrigo
for Tomás for young Gonzalo for Alonso; let them go
or not as they wish
or let them leave you in the dark
alone with the ashes
of your beauty
which are your resurrection Celia
daughter and granddaughter of Pizarros
of late Pizarros Mother;
and may you come with us
into exile dwelling as always in grace
and mutual delight.
be thy name.