Atlas of a difficult World

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I always let my poetry do all the talking. There aren't any ways to summarize a poem.

Submitted: July 27, 2008

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Submitted: July 27, 2008

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I have here a map of our country:
Here is the sea of indifferences, varnished with salt.
This is the river of curses that flows from the front to the end:
Water that we dare not taste.
This is the desert in which missiles have been planted like bulbs.
This is the barn of the mortgaged farms.
This is the place in which a young rocker was born.
This is the cemetery of the poor,
Who died because of the democracy.
This is the battlefield,
Of a nineteenth century war,
The tomb is famous.
This is the mythical marine city,
When the fisheries became ruins.
This is where there was work,
In the wharf,
Freezing fish in pieces,
Paid by hour without dividends.
These are more battlefields.
And These are the suburbs of consent,
The silence elevates like the smoke from the chimneys.
This is the capital of money and pain;
Its bridges wear down,
Its children follow the drift by poor confined alleyways,
Through wires of rolled up thorns.
I promised to show you a map,
And you say ‘ but this is a mural’.
Well then, let it be.
They are small differences,
It’s a matter of where we look at them.


© Copyright 2017 Erudite Erato. All rights reserved.

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