Ground Zero is at the soul of the Western World,
near the heart, in a plot in Manhattan.
The giants fell. September tears.
Tears made of flesh and metal.
The planet held its breath.
The children of the dusk armed themselves in retaliation.
How sad you don't know how to allocate your mercy.
Also that each wound in the skin of this planet
is another Groud Zero to be grieved.
And you open another wound making the same mistake.
Ground Zero bleeds in the ruins of Kabul.
A mouth without teet smiles from under a burka.
Ground Zero spreads out its blemish to the south.
And there are no Septembers or grievings
for this land pierced by the fire.
Sorrounded by wire fences, very close to Bethlehem,
in the middle of Ground Zero the child of a god was born.
The olive trees dry up and Palestine sees
as under the debris sleep
doves hiding from the winter.
And now you, my love,
small great superpower
wake me up
and tell me that things will go well.
That you will plant flowers all over town.
That you will make me tremble.
And now come, my love,
let's get out in the streets very early
to shout
that in our name they better never cut
the hands that sowed,
the hands that gave warmth.
And if it's in his name,
I curse God.
From a hotel beutiful Scheherazade contemplates,
blinded by the flames, the streets of Baghdad.
Women hide from the wolf in Ciudad Juárez.
And in the traffic lights in Rio
children have lead and cellophane paper for lunch.
In Africa Ground Zero distends the bellies
and will fill their beds of shadows and delirium.
An indian in some jungle dreams of serpents today.
And in a café in Grozny the elderly
cry for the peace that won't return.
And now you, my love,
small great superpower
wake me up
and tell me that things will go well.
That you will plant flowers all over town.
That you will make me tremble.
And now come, my love,
let's get out in the streets very early
to shout
that in our name they better never cut
the hands used that sowed,
the hands that gave warmth.
And if it's in his name,
I curse God.
