by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Jayant Kashyap and Wendy Call
Now the houses, like the sun, have a yellow roof,
or pink, their eyes shouting at the beach,
but the sun, lost, doesn’t care today;
there is no light in their plaited, textured hair;
nobody knows who’s there in the houses that are now ruined.
The path that leaves to the sea also hides
under a mountainous veil the only way to your village,
its only open mouth-door – red,
easier to leave from the distance.
This place, it’s worried about its sun.
This place, it’s worried about its son.
In the wake of your leaving, even the dogs couldn’t
bury the silence; there’s nothing here anymore –
the dogs, the robbers,
the birds, even the birds have now left this worried, horrible place.