Beneath the Poplars
(For Spanish translation click here)

for José Garrido

Like poet-priests who’ve been imprisoned,

the poplars of blood have slept

chewing songs of grass in the sunset,

the herds of Bethlehem on the hills.

To the latest martyrs of light

the ancient shepherd, shaken

in his Easters’ eyes have picked up

a caste herd of constellations.

Tilled in orphanhood the moment gone down

with burial rumors, in the praying meadows

cowbells fill with autumn shadows.

Survive the blue weaved on iron,

in which the shrouded pupils

a dog draws his pastoral howl.