Rafael Jesús González
The Hands
–to Victor Jara
Each broken string
one of six painted arrows
the bow of your voice sends
against outrage —
each finger a lance
in the conscience
each drop a note against silence.
The black birds fall,
their feathers snow in mourning,
upon memory
where the blood boils
each drop a note against silence.
The hands fall on the sand,
each a red fountain
that runs toward a sea without islands
each drop a note against silence.
Brother, the sparrows grow shy;
the jars of time have broken
& your song runs through the world
each drop a note against silence:
when the blood grows wings
it is called freedomeach drop a note against silence.
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