by Renato Martinez

These small things
covering our house walls
our furniture’s nakedness
Copper from my land
black ceramics
from Pomaire
and Oaxaca
Pieces of the day
picked up
on passing
through the roads

Small things
avoiding our sight
from dusty corners
of an impossible present
that once thought of
is already gone

They are fragments of our lives
that go into forgetfulness
before we go

Small things
without a soul
that stop talking to us

because their past
has abandoned them
just like in ourselves
things that once happened
become unvoiced
and one day
they turn unto
the final silence

Translated by the author

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