[From a letter from Augusto Al Q'adi Alcalde, 9/28/00]

Grows

And grows, this bitter taste

as if the gall bladder of the world

had drunk more than enough

of this dubious Gin

of spilled blood, muscle

exhausted heart of the tear

and for making things more complete

the tire of my car flat

and you are not passing through this window

and the tobacco is over, and this

is nothing, also the smoke

and what to do with this fire

and maybe I'm exaggerating, only an ember

but never ashes, never

cardiogram flat of anesthesia

of 1+1=2, and tomorrow I'll retire

and what to do with this ember

and this Latino land so fertile

of life, of horror, and of dance

that in my veins one hundred years pass

for each day that I'm alive

this land keeps on beating

this corn cóndor cinnamon rumba

with so much evil walking your landscape

that if it were not so tragic with graves

memories, oblivion, children, bellies

if it were not, would be

is, will be or was

rebel dignity, smoke

of fires, of faces, scarves

and the fear of the naked king

I said naked but really

no body, no organs inhabit him

knot of ignorance fear greed,

farms, smokes, horizons, steps

impregnating each day

what I'm saying, centuries

that I stay alive

palpitate land cinnamon rumb

walk landscape ember, that here we know

tobacco will be forever and smoke

and if the window is here you are here

and if you are here the Land Without Evil has not died

corn cóndor cinnamon rumba

burning memory, child, belly

and thus how, and I'm not asking it,

will ever, the smoke be over?