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?