Shadow after shadow, I don't want to be
one of the many
in the column of POLTROONS.
Their red shadows have united
on a red-colored road,
like blood in the veins,
like the sun in a bloody cradle.
Friends! With their heads bent down, they stand amidst a barren field,
unnoticeable like worms within the moist entrails of the earth,
withered and inapprehensible like yellow leaves,
in their silent burial
they spread cowardly silence
into the immensity of the mysterious night.
Somewhere in the distance the crickets feverishly chirp
much louder than the poltroon column,
and because of this the night burns like petroleum,
screaming at the sky, dying of pain.
The quiet wail of the wind forces me to scream and cry
with the children of dead heroes,
the missionaries without a tongue, without a throat,
with the tree that burns and smells
with a cold and deadly scent.
I need to voice myself,
not like the sound of a bell, but like freedom
being born, perhaps in a different,
less sorrowful way,
not like extinguished fire
left behind by the travelers of the poltroon column, so silent
that they swallowed the forlorn sigh
like the last drink.
Because once, yes, once the brotherly voice
shall resurrect from the dead mouths on my side of the road,
uttering like a heavenly bell,
and from each sound I receive
a candle shall be lighted
upon the dark waters of the sleepy cemetery,
the trembling ashes shall fall into the water
while the tears, merged with the dark waters,
while the prayers and curses and anger
shall be salted with my tears.
I am asking you, silence,
were you led this way by the poltroon column,
beyond the clouds greased by blood?
Is silence the chain of men,
the imprisoned voice of Freedom,
the night looming over crosses,
ribbed by the icy wind,
did you kill the voice of the poltroon column,
chaining them with eternal silence?
Their miserable downcast shadows
won't just dream the snake dream forever and ever,
their tears shall also fall into the dark hole
dug into clay with anguish.