Los muertos están aquí
We have been attacked all winter.
Sheets of ice have wrecked the homes
that were not heated.
I cannot think of the words
to tell these people
where to look
when the ice melts.
I cannot speak this language.
An old woman hands me paper and pencil.
I try to write a note.
The word "morte" comes into my mind.
The word "aqui" comes into my mind.
The word "est" comes into my mind.
Then I say:
La morte est aqui.
The man in the chair nods.
It is wrong.
When I awake from this nightmare
I seek a translator for the words
I want to say.
But it is too late.
The dead are not here.
The dead are there in my dreams
and I want to go on fighting
in the mountains
with the rebels.
Barry G. Wick
copyright (c) 2006 by Barry G. Wick