Small Indian canoe
It has just come to Spain in a small Indian canoe.
With the far-away look he wants to find the future.
Scarcely it is had in foot. He has bequeathed exhausted, moribund to the coast. The life has staked for the living carried out the sleep of trying to make in this country. In his it has nothing and nothing has to lose, well, only what he has left: the life. But: what is the life if you do not have any future?
For the time being it has managed to survive. How long?
I have found a poem of Benedetti that goes for title I hope that is according to the times and good it could comment illustrates the photo without much ado.
The time goes on to the margin of the people
and the people hide before this step
the world smells to fear and defeat
and the shame is already not innocent
we are in the Occident cracks
and the hope margin is so scarce
that the red wine does not fit in the glass
and if one feels it is small what he feels
the secret bandoneón between curtains
he silences of sleep and doubts
and it makes a mistake with what he remembers
I hope that wakes up of its ruins
and I offered to us its naked notes
before this world does shit to itself.
published in Magazine Atticus 4
Filed file: General
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