Priscilla Herdman Follow

Alejandro has said he will run to the store,
to bring back tobacco and beer.
In the silence we wait for the sound of the door,
for the hour of curfew is near
Outside we can hear the rattle of guns,
and the trucks as the pass in the street.
Our lullaby ends and the dark hour comes,
and we whisper the small ones to sleep.

In the morning I seek out the neighbours around.
I ask, but nobody knows.
Did he stay for the night with a friend in the town?
The doors of our friends are all closed.
The sergeant looks up at the sound of my name.
Quickly, his eyes turn away.
No need to answer, it's always the same.
On the outskirts of town he will stay.

Like a broken doll, he lies in the street,
and greets me with unblinking eyes.
A blood red rose now blooms on his shirt,
and he sleeps to the music of flies.
Lost in his silence, thoughtless I wait,
for an angel of Christ to appear.
My heart is clenched in the black hand of hate,
and Hatred has stolen my tears.

A bullet can open up such a small wound,
when our children are led to the wall.
The price of his life was the sun and the moon,
the price of his death was so small.
And where are the bullets the buy back the dreams,
of children who'll never grow old?
Why have they traded our rice and our beans,
for coffee more precious than gold.

And I will go back to the sergeant again,
in my manner no trace of surprise.
And he will look up at the sound of my name,
to discover his death in my eyes.
My brothers and sisters all flee to the wild,
to counsel, to nurture, to learn.
And you who would feast on the blood of a child,
sleep well, until we return.
And where are the bullets to buy back the dreams
of children who'll never grow old?
Why have they traded our rice and our beans,
for coffee, more precious than gold.