On the death of Jesús María Valle JaramilloAssassinated, Medellin, Colombia, February 1998

by Séamas Carraher

Jesus, Signor María,
i'm sitting and the moon bursts
like an unhinged angel
through these cold holes
in the sunlight of your head.
Then they are shaped
into streets
and i'm walking on wings
between the dead and the undead
with little difference
seldom in-between.

How fragile this place called life!

With the moon in its mysterious flowers
washing your almost-human blood
from the debris of furniture
they've thrown into the street.

We are listening
to these
somehow-never-to-be-spoken words
whisper:
"it's not so bad to be this forever dead...
It seems somehow
we are all falling endlessly
across the galaxy
on the monsoon of a dream."

Jesus, Signor María,
I could almost believe you.

But all that's left
is the bursting of the moon
this beautiful moon,
and your hands, your lovely hands
hold its shining pieces
like a sad sad angel...

And then it is raining.
And we are dreaming.

We dream endlessly,
of life and death
and all our falling
in-between.