XICHANG'S MOONJimu Langge
If I say Xichang’s moon
is like a harlot
Respectable gentleman will call me a hooligan
Oh they talk about me.
But what’s there they can say?
Shall l dab on some scent
These too are war poems
composed while it rages, not far off, not nearby
seated askew at
I listen to a distant music, as of words that are going to be pronounced, the last in a
XLVIIIJosé Manuel Arango
in what arduous countries
in what obscure war
without knowing it
have I fought and
I enter the fever. From my window I see the birth of the seas, hills covered by foam, dead,
I have always loved trees.
Collected their names as I later collected my appetites.
What were you looking at then, when the light
Was not light but death throes?
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