^{translated from the Spanish by Muna Lee}

Poet, soldier, statesman, hero, he stands—
Great, like the countries whose freedom he won;
He whom no country can claim as her son,
Though as his daughters were born many lands.

His was the valor of who bears a sword;
His was the courtesy of who wears a flower:
Entering salons, he laid by the sword;
Plunging in battles, he tossed away the flower.

The peaks of the Andes to him seemed to be
But exclamation points after his stride:
Soldier-poet he was; poet-soldier was he!

Each land that he freed
Was a soldier’s poem and a poet’s deed:
And he was crucified.

Trees are the souls of men
Reaching skyward.
And while each soul
Draws nearer God
Its dark roots cleave
To earthly sod:
     Death, only death
     Brings triumph to the soul.
     The silent grave alone
     Can bare the goal.
     Then roots and all
     Must lie forgot—
     To rot.

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

Everyone who left us we find everywhere.

It’s easier, now, to look them in the eyes—

At gravesites, in bed, when the phone rings.

Of course, we wonder if they think of us.



It’s easier, now, to look them in the eyes,

Imagine touching a hand, listening to them talk.

Of course, we wonder if they think of us

When nights, like tonight, turn salty, warm.



Imagine touching a hand, listening to them talk—

Hard to believe they’re capable of such coldness.

When nights, like tonight, turn salty, warm,

We think of calling them, leaving messages.



Hard to believe they’re capable of such coldness—

No color, no pulse, not even a nerve reaction.

We think of calling them, leaving messages

Vivid with news we’re sure they’d want to know.



No color, no pulse, not even a nerve reaction:

We close our eyes in order not to see them.

Vivid with news, we’re sure they’d want to know

We don’t blame them, really. They weren’t cruel.



We close our eyes in order not to see them

Reading, making love, or falling asleep.

We don’t blame them. Really, they weren’t cruel,

Though it hurts every time we think of them:



Reading, making love, or falling asleep,

Enjoying the usual pleasures and boredoms.

Though it hurts every time we think of them,

Like a taste we can’t swallow their names stay.



Enjoying the usual pleasures and boredoms,

Then, they leave us the look of their faces

Like a taste we can’t swallow. Their names stay,

Diminishing our own, getting in the way



At gravesites, in bed, when the phone rings.

Everyone who left us we find everywhere,

Then they leave us, the look of their faces

Diminishing, our own getting in the way.