Tomorrow Triumphant

When I told you that evening
that soon I was going back to my country
because waiting for me there were the roads
I have always crossed since my childhood,
the high jacarandas of my country,
the intimate music of embraces,
I remember you talked about us,
about the parks we got to know together,
about the tears that would follow me
when I go back to my people
and about the profound grief
that my clandestine return to Guatemala
was causing you,
because you would continue loving
the banished young man who learned
how to sing in exile.
But you never lit up
you salty stars,
because it is not fair to weep
for a man who looks after
the future of his people.
Today, I love the firmness
That flooded my eyes’ birds
because I see you now like then,
caring for the red geraniums
that I used to kiss every morning
like a staunch tribute to tenderness.
And I am writing this letter
because it is necessary
that my departure be clear:
I returned to my country
obeying an exact order
from my perennial star,
but during the past two months
I have not kissed any red geraniums,
and every sunrise,
when my anatomy lights up
its daily lamp of blood,
I go far to the distant suburb
where your loud heart dreams
about its old way of embracing me,
and I, at the bottom of its memories,
engrave my destiny of a soldier
of the old popular aspirations,
and sink my voice in the geraniums
with great rustic passion
and embrace the first man
who happens to cry in the middle of the street.

  • trans. by Francisco X. Alarcón