The Black Heralds
(For Spanish translation click here)

Life has such blows and such harsh ones . . . I don’t know!

Blows like the hatred of God; as if before them,

the whiplash of all suffering

were to damn up the soul . . . I don’t know!

They are few, yet they are . . . cleaving dark furrows

in the proudest of faces and the strongest of backs.

Perhaps they are the colts of barbarous Attilas;

or the black heralds sent to us by Death.

They are the deep downfall of the Christ’s soul,

of some adoring faith that Destiny blasphemes.

These bloody blows are the cracklings

of some bread we burn at the oven door.

And man . . . Poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes, as

when we are called by a pat on the shoulder;

he turns his mad eyes, and all experienced

wells up, like a pool of guilt in his gaze.

Life has such blows and such harsh ones . . . I don’t know!