I float suspended in an ocean of time,
Coldness of my vacant future biting my bones,
My past still radiating with an aching warmth.
Frozen are the rivers of life inside me,
But even in the grimmest night, my eyes can still see,
Through the crystal waters made of tears,
Darkness hollows forming light buds,
With contorted figures tangled in tufts of hair,
The long-legged shapes revolving like an upside down ballet,
The ruffled hairs embroider into silk wings,
And every drown scream reshapes into a flake,
Covering the silk wings with a colorful mosaic of despair,
The winged figures submerge headlong to a bottomless end,
Eleven immaculate wings turned before they emerge,
Their pristine consciousness stained with vicious red,
The curvilinear figures precipitate into oblivion,
Their eternal fall framed by a lack of concern,
With silken wings fluttering like ragged clothes,
I suffer for those whose dreams were plucked before me,
And I fear for those who walk a feather-coated road,
Their delicate silk wings, still to be touched,
When heaven breaks, angels are cast into hell,
But even if a second is enough to change the end,
If your silk wings are broken, you will never fly again.
Poem by M. Ch. Landa
Dedicated with respect to the memory of Debanhi Escobar and all the women victims of violence, to whom their silk wings were returned too soon.
