Make for blindness
grinding glass to scrape our eyes
with tinctures of quicklime
and boiling sand.
Snuff out the luster that colors our acts,
the speech of the elder tribe–this
sainted word that edges true lights out.
Make for death without fanfare or joy,
without the promise of comfort or plainsong,
without the wit of grave men who judge the shadows of the past.
Make a pact to wash our hands in ash and walk the waves.
The past is a bloody obstacle,
a dead weight,
a dry oblivion.
Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi