Daltónica

(To Roque Dalton)

Thumbelina of a poet
who escapes and tickles me,
so joyful, so without a chair,
so full of torrential loves,
so endless.

Joy of a land
that removes its borders,
undresses its hips,
the volcanic central
of a light.

I saw him,
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
In the year thirty-two
he wasn't alive and I saw him
telling his stories
of the future, he was among thousands.
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.

Poor poets,
blessings are Daltons,
where there are bones, they see brown,
promised territories
like a sun.

So little arm his poetry,
rises in the sensual
marsupial labyrinths
and distributes red pollen,
blooms.

I saw him,
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
It was the year two thousand,
he wasn't alive and I saw him.
The mistaken death took him
and he walks here;
and I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.

Thumbelina of a poet
who escapes and tickles me,
so joyful, so without a chair,
so full of torrential loves,
so endless.

Grows armed with hope,
digs up what was lost,
makes a sound child
to the silence of that town
that is master of his dreams.

Who escapes and tickles us,
so fearless, so without a chair,
so loved, so armed,
so of everyone, Salvador.