Let the bullets in boxes become chocolate
Wrapped in gold foil
Because love is the moon. And light moves in us
Moves in us like blood
A human head is impaled on a stick,
not because there are holes in your clothes
But because the streets are strewn with Buddhists-
With their mute limbs and fingerless hands
Hair burning, they are the ones that set themselves on fire.
No, Sarajevo is not burning
No! No other city is burning either
The plumes of smoke, clear and white
Are not like angels soaring to the sky
They are the Guatemalan men, returning from their
Disappearance to the market's square
Setting off the grenades
Yes
And the robes are ripped.