Who’s killed Neruda?- by Juan M.S.

I wake up today and I’m informed

Neruda was killed.

He didn’t die of old age,

mumbling some romantic words

to the last love of his life,

nor he ate some buttered bread

that very same morning,

thinking of some corny poem

to add to his collection.

He was assieged by the certainty

of his nation in flames,

with fire fueled by self-interests,

by Smith’s invisible hand.

He was too sad to escape

the destiny of his people,

he was too old to fight

a war as old as men’s ambition.

And we still don’t know who killed

Neruda’s placid dreams,

but we know and those who know

will never give up the fight

until the last hitman enshrined

in American constitution,

is put down where it belongs,

and his ashes are scattered

around the globe as he would want it,

to feed some Chinese soil

and fall as a balm

on Chilean sorrows.

And the reign of terror will end,

but this time the hangman

won’t be called a terrorist.


I'm a writer born in Argentina, but currently living in Poland. I work as an English and French teacher, translator and copywriter.

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