Читать книгу After Eden - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 18

I visited the well-lit corner

on the other side of Southern

Boulevard in that time of day

everyone kept telling me too

many kids forget a needle with

dope coped on the block would

leave them dead. after the mounting

years of war this country has used to

to count passing years, I particularly

recalled Viet Nam protesters gathered on

that very spot unpacking their Spanish

objections in the name of bringing home

the neighborhood poor who were dying in

jungles for rich men’s greed, far from

diplomacy and the requirements of peace.

on that specific day, I saw Manolo’s mother

standing on the spot pouring her life in

tears, since her son came from the jungle

just to die in a tenement hallway with a

needle fixed in his veins. she whispered

into my ear, whenever the country is at war

the poor kids around here stop dreaming of

big things, and Tío Sam carts them away to

become citizens that die in the ghastly lands,

and for what! I carry this corner with me each

day praying for the war drums to stop their tenacious

beating, always asking the good Lord to soften the

the stone hearts of the men responsible for sending

poor kids to die in the name of their arrogance and

gluttony.