i see him straightening the
ruffle of his native clothing,
putting words of truth
inside the empty parentheses
of mendacities -
it is through his leonine eyes
that i see the pointlessness
of men. through the
TV's hoarse static i can hear
his voice occupy the space
of obligation without swerving
to paths made available for ease
without clear trudge.
sir, you make it painless
to conceive these cutting truths -
death trembles in these taut attestations. in half-lighted periphery i can see the shadows
threatening to cast us into damnation, and it is in the bright ray of your speech that i have started to uncover the beasts
and their diminutive language.
dark as dark these ploys could be,
now that they are whiter than
ever with their transparencies,
you have handed these people
flames to torch effigies
and use their glare to light
the intransigent paths
to this nation's true calling!
spare us from the debaucher
of this once sacred land, the contortionists of these ill fates.
and preserve our just tillage
over these archipelagos!
save us from the vertigo of these
mangled, twisting roads!
give our speech obdurate
magnitude so we can hammer down
the lies thrown at us and cast them away together with their wretched demagogues!
let us once more, be brave
to withstand the eye of storms
and emerge wizened like
trees in the summer of
our old, resplendent memories
where everything is
and nothing
is speaking loosely
of something far from our hands
to hold, like
prosperity,
or effulgence - altogether!
for Ernesto Mercado and his staunch will for truth.
