Caravana
La nutrida caravana viene del sur
del este, del oeste cruzando montañas ciudades y desiertos dejando atrás amor temor, desamor.
Reporteros y noticias
siguen los pasos
de niños, mujeres y hombres que buscan el oasis de la vida.
Cámaras, luces y grabadoras lanzan al mundo imágenes y voces de aflicción en harapos.
Un periodista pregunta —¿De dónde vienen?
Una madre mira a su hijo. Un viejo sacude el polvo
Caravan.
The swollen caravan comes from the South East and West
crossing mountains
towns and deserts
leaving behind loved ones feared ones, indifference.
Reporters and the news follow the footsteps
of children, women and men looking for the oasis of life.
TV cameras, lights and recorders throw at the world images and voices of afflicted people in rags.
A reporter asks “Where are you from?”
A mother looks at her son.
An old man shakes off the dust
de sus gastados zapatos.
—Venimos de la miseria. —¿Su país?
—La desgracia. —¿Dónde queda?
Un hombre señala el horizonte. —Allá. Tras la montaña. Lejos.
La caravana harapienta sigue la legendaria ruta que en tiempos pasados cruzaban conquistadores sobreviviendo tormentas abismos y fieras.
La caravana de hoy enfrenta traficantes desalmados muros electrificados bombas de gas
lanzadas por policías sin piedad dirigidos por políticos sin corazón.
Mujeres y niños indefensos
corren por doquier
ahogados por nubes de gas
como en los tiempos de Hitler
el fanático que exterminó
millones de inocentes seres humanos y que parece haber resucitado
para aterrorizar la frontera.
—¿Son ustedes terroristas? —Somos miserables. —¿Traen armas? —Traemos hambre.
—¿De qué huyen?
—De la violenta miseria. —¿Qué buscan?
—La vida.
—¿No tienen nada en su país? —Solo la muerte.
El niño mira la cámara con ojos vacíos.
La cámara mira al niño con ojos de vidrio.
El reportero guarda la cámara. Reúne su equipo y se marcha.
La caravana sigue adelante. A veces se dispersa
como bandada de pájaros en inseguro vuelo.
Unos caminarán a Tijuana
muchos a Juárez
otros quizá más allá
más allá de la tierra de la indiferencia más allá del infierno
de donde viene la caravana.
No tienen más remedio que andar hacer su propio camino
hacia el incierto horizonte
enfrentar la oscuridad de la muerte para tal vez encontrar la luz de la vida.
© Mario Bencastro. 2018.
Caravan
The swollen caravan comes from the South East and West
crossing mountains
towns and deserts
leaving behind loved ones feared ones, indifference.
Reporters and the news follow the footsteps
of children, women and men looking for the oasis of life.
TV cameras, lights and recorders throw at the world images and voices of afflicted people in rags.
A reporter asks “Where are you from?”
A mother looks at her son.
An old man shakes off the dust
of his worn out shoes.
“From misery.”
“What country are you from?” “Misfortune.”
“Where is that?”
A man points at the horizon. “There. Behind the mountain. Far.”
The ragged caravan follows the route
that in past times conquistadors crossed facing storms
the abyss and wild beasts.
Today’s caravan faces inhumane trafficker’s electrified walls
gas bombs
shot by brutal policemen directed by heartless politicians.
Defenseless women and children run everywhere
suffocated by gas clouds
like in the time of Hitler
the fanatic that exterminated millions of innocent human beings and that appears to have resurrected to terrorize the border.
“Are you terrorists?”
“We are miserable.”
“Are you armed?”
“We are hungry.”
“What are you running away from?” “From violence and misery.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Life.”
“Have you nothing in your country?” “Only death.”
The child looks at the camera with vague eyes.
The camera looks at the child with glass eyes.
The reporter puts away the camera. Gathers his equipment and leaves.
The caravan moves on. Sometimes it disperses like a flock of birds
in an uncertain flight.
Some of them will walk to Tijuana many to Juarez
others maybe even further
beyond the land of indifference
far away from the inferno where the caravan comes from.
They have no other choice but to walk to forge their own path
towards the uncertain horizon
face the darkness of death
and maybe find the light of life.
© Mario Bencastro. 2018.
