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By Gioconda Belli

They fall without noise
the leaves of the trees
their green, their life is extinguished
without reducing the bustle of the forest
of its overflowing, violent vitality.
Between the branches, the drowsy birds
perhaps notice the soft descent
the brightness of the broken nervature

Like this in the smoldering cities
one Monday, Tuesday or Thursday
a pair of shoes splattered with blood
sits abandoned on the pavement.
From the steps of the school
the boy turns his face and remembers
his father’s lost expression
At home at five in the afternoon the dog
lies on one side of the door that its owner
will never open again
The colorful dresses languish in the dresser
victims of the husband’s painful cowardice
Night finds the bed empty
and moors itself in the sloped dock
that the dreamer and her dream once occupied

One Monday, Tuesday or Thursday,
Shovels open holes in the cemeteries
the earth unseasonably receives
the voice, the profile, the pen
of the sentenced
In the thicket of the city
the murder weapon disappears
behind the silence of the
confabulators’ voices.

They fall without noise the leaves of the trees.
This is how the assasinated fall to their graves.
Will the birds wake up?

October 2012

(Translated by David Shook)