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.
