Читать книгу Cattle of the Lord - Rosa Elise Branco - Страница 13

SILK ROAD OF BLOOD

The route of the birds. Those mornings when I’d

lift my head and they’d be going by

grazing my childhood. Strolling

the sky as I would stroll below. Without a street and

packed sidewalks jamming their breath for a secret

inside the ear. A trembling, almost a consciousness

of having a body. Flocked together, more people than secrets.

Maybe that is why they land upon the empty roofs.

It is the path that chooses them.

There is more to be said between the what and the who.

For example, birds have routes the war knows nothing of.

Collisions with planes in the forecast

this year (she tells herself),

this country bloody

in the beaks of birds.

They’d be going by. But not the trains, the wayside stations,

the bubbling footsteps further and further from the birds.

It was the body that demanded other maps, sinuous

lines or kisses. But mornings now are asking questions,

for example, who chooses the death of one to follow the route

of another. And always the question of profits.

One concludes that there are fewer causes than birds

upon the solitary roofs. Fewer causes, more blood.