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Biblioteca de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Sábado, 24 de octubre de 2020

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The Fourth Reich, Israel

 

Your Angel has fallen.

There is no admiration in his eyes.

 

Possibly, You have the money.

Possibly, You have power.

 

But the Angel is not longer smiling

At the sons of that brave fighter.

 

He has an appointment at Al Awda Hospital,

Settled in Your own kind of KZ called Gaza.

 

The Angel lifted off Israel's ground

Riding a cluster bomb as his precious steed.

 

He landed among the wreckages

And the lagoons of blood.

 

The Angel realized that it was a gas chamber too, but this time

The Chosen ones were using white phosphorus instead of Zyklon as incense.

 

The Angel walked by the promenade built by dust and corpses,

Crying silently while He listened to the last echoes of that schoolish terrorist building.

 

But the Angel has an appointment at Al Awda Hospital,

And has crossed out his list to be proud or amazed.

 

At Awda Hospital, there she lies another twelve- year- old Anne Frank,

And the scalds on her arms do not stop her to relate.  

 

The Angel has come to embrace her, chiseling her words with his own tears.

But they do not cure her vengeance or pain.

 

Oh, Israel, Israel, Israel!

Envenomed like Prospero's your judgment has ended!

 

World, what have you done?

How could You ever celebrate yourself?

 

Vermin. Traitors Uncles of Denmark

Peace to that atom that belonging to us as good belongs to them.

 

A prescription of rest to the Onion.

The blasted Coat sentenced to die on the gallows.

 

Our Angel has fallen.

There is no admiration in his eyes.

 

Our Angel is no longer smiling

at the sons of Humanity.

 

And He just keeps crying blood, despair,sadness...

How could it be that simple, that possible to You celebrate yourselves?

 

Who said to You that you were Golems?

Met to You! Met to You! Met to You! I'm through.  

 

Vanora Miranda

 

 

Género al que pertenece la obra: Poesía
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