In the colombian Andes

"They travel upon mules, but travel for last time.
The women seek along the way to be as blinded.
All day mules carry a big sorrow
leave aside a herd of crosses
where only stone reminds who are no longer.

They form them up as if were children,
and in the red prairie where their souls now aren´t
the form is yet faithful to way it burned.
The faces tarry deep, weary,
before acknowledging chaos.

Night passes spreading silent branches
and fear ignites fires while air smockers
that in this lips will never be again a secret.
Flames gild their byes in still mouths
which learn by now from ice and stone their silence.

The rain won´t know what blood is in them dousing
the rain over the roofs will fable battles,
catastrophies more noble than hate that blind us.

Those who haven´t born will also expire:
it is not dead, it´s crime what shake us,
the gash of anger there, where dream resided.

The lovely and deaf sky will not leave their mourning,
vaguely monstrous, the great temples will endure
even though life would fall by thousands
even if through sordid legions hell controled us.

And if from dust the lark again arouses,
nothing will erase the massive sureness
that price was high for slightest glory,
that this dream was close to fighting heaven.

Slow deceased of gold, you, the waisted money,
under nameless stones, pieces of planet,
your epitaph shall be green and winged life,
you rest under mystery, dremless dreamers,
while stars roll upon the large red mountains,
and that which we don´t grasp
                            make our lips tremble."
William Ospina, El país del viento (The wind country)