We do not bring flowers to the dead.
We bring them to apologize to ourselves
On how, little by little our memories die.
We do not visit the dead.
We go in front of the tomb to find
Us in them.
Like little candles burning
We search for light
Or shadows beneath every passing soul.
We do not lit candles
Just so the smoke could reach their nostrils
The thousand candles melting
The thousand fires lighting
Do they remind us of something?
We look to the earth, when we see nothing
But words, we search in the sky
Hoping clouds could answer our questions.
We feel the softness of the green grass
We back ourselves with colors to minimize
Blurs and black and white images,
Then we hide in the midst of herds of people
We share how they’ve become strangers
In the land of the dead.
But still they are mum of our invasion
Of this only day of the year
When we broke their peace.
The remaining three hundred sixty four days
Are, well, we don’t know
We are just asleep.
Then after smoke filled all the area
Looting we’re done
We hear retreating footsteps.
We hear little children
Singing happy birthday
And go out blow every candle.
We hear some laughing
We hear some crying
We hear them sing lullabies.
After a brief encounter of the dead
And of themselves
In what they call cemetery.
We do not know the dead
They know us
In what little room they have
They look at us.
We mourn for them.
But most of the times, they mourn for us.