DESTRUCTION—Miroslava Rosales

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And my mother gave me refuge from knives,
gunpowder, rain, quicklime,
for nine months in her womb,
she thought of seagulls for my heart,
of sunflowers, interstellar dust, clematis,
and gave me her rivers, her grains of aurora and oats,
her milk, her heat,
her word, source of blood and melody,
and built for me with her hands, with her mouth,
a world of silence and aluminium.
And I grew up
xxxxxxxxxxxxxto be aware of destruction,
that the surest word is death,
that sunflowers exist no longer, my yard open to the sun,
the cypress round which I played always alone in the afternoons,
the galaxy that I watched from my telescope as a girl,
and now I live in the winter mist of a ghostforest,
on a journey to the centre of catastrophes,
and now there’s no way back.
Now there’s no way back.


translated by DB 

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