Chicano Poet

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Victor Jara, Forgive Us Our Trespasses

They crushed his hands in the stadium,
there was silence in Santiago.

Silence, the likes of which had never been heard before.
There was no wind at windy Isla Negra.

Down at the tip of Chile,
the penguins wore only black.

There was no such instrument called guitar.
The military had confiscated all the wood.

The dictator had the people wash his balls.
But poetry and song can only vomit so much.

Today the crowds invent their own history,
one so beautiful and white as milk---

you’d think that cows
were never slaughtered.


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