Photo by Kunj Parekh on Unsplash

Mexican Literature

Dust Balls

Poetry

Here it does not snow.
Here, if you kick a tree in winter, it will fall dust,
the same as in summer, spring, and autumn.

Here no one is born to make a snow angel in the white ground.
Here no one is born to play snowball fights.

Here the weapons kill,
and the wars begin when a demon coughs in a dandelion.
Here, the angels are footprints of prostitutes raped since childhood.
Here, the snowball fights end with blood,
and it feels chill even if it does not snow.

Here no one skates on ice,
everybody dances on the heated floor,
hoping to not get decapitated.

But here it does not snow.
It does not feel cold,
just long enough,
as the dead women in the rivers,
as the president’s smile, and soul.

Here firewood are corpses,
and fireplaces are cemeteries.
Here, under the perennial sun,
dust falls like snowflakes.