Poems by Marcela Villar M
The walls speak.
They seem to get closer
as damned prisons where Poets
sing desolate songs deprived of voice.
Who cuts out the meter from their verses?
Who chains the freedom of verses that fly
from peaks that protect nests now empty?
Schizophrenic fears gather in the boulevards
of extinct minds,
meanwhile miserable dictators lock them up
in emaciated catacombs.
Their tortured bodies hang
from crosses with no kingdoms.
There is no resurrection in such agony,
Poetry dies without a Messiah.
Lyrical poetry weeps.
Hypocritical muses dressed as Magdalena weep
while they hide behind red glass windows stained
with the holy blood of Poets.
roar with millennial fire;
there is no peace in the mouth.
The books burn the hands
that touch secrets and mysteries,
metaphor is dressed as the bride,
white she goes up to an altar of sacrifice.
The chains of slavery lament;
mourn tears of hopelessness,
but Poets will never die.
will make them live.
© All rights reserved. Author Marcela Villar M. 2015