by Gideon Burton
after César Vallejo's Los Heraldos Negros
I'll fix a time and watch for them to come,
the riders on their horses wet with sweat
and tight with ancient anger, something red
beneath the skin enough to wound or stun,
or numb you to the thunder of their hooves
igniting dust and throwing sparks of white
so high, so floating windy high that ash
and oil glow against the thudding crash
of riders coming, riding through the night
their noise descending, caulking seam and groove
with grainy soil, sand against the eye.
I held the moon from moving, silver light
a second sigh against the dusky blight
of craters swallowing my mute reply.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - still wanderer (adapted)
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