Poetry for multitudes, as a unity of the earth

Before the ancient times, we were one, the earth and us, when there were no frontiers or differences, when it was unthinkable that someone owned anything since we all descended from a generous and warm sun.

Nomads or farmers, obsessed by the inebriation of abundance, our sweet unity was one day broken by the sword and we discovered we were prisoners of an oiled machinery of hecatombs.

We lost the primordial cipher of the beginning of the world. Class struggles, wars of centuries, alternate victories and defeats of humans, a unique dispersion of energy till we were exhausted, a transition from being an ocean to a single drop, followed one after another.

Before the ancient times we were one, but the earth opened, and among us and the earth stained with blood, alien during endless centuries, the enemy passed by victorious, inquisitive, impositive, overwhelming: Terror, in other words.

On the chimneys of houses hung the heads of rhinos and buffaloes, just as the heads of rebels from the stockades.

Were tied up, silenced, slaves, cut down by the absence of truth, subjected to the rack of irresolution.

However, because of the iron resistance of a legendary dream against the inevitable wear and tear of oppressive time, there broke out a sudden clarity for all, and the enemy, inquisitive, impositive, overwhelming, does no longer have the upper hand.

For death and the old history are collapsing. Death appears exhausted and bare. The terrorist power, indigent.

The march of peoples it blooms. With a clear route and a sage destiny.

Poetry compacts the quick-sands, it gives us back the ocean of a lost respiration, it picks up the loose threads of collective existence, never destined to be loose. Poetry calling in all languages —multitudinous—, as a unity of the earth.

Fernando Rendón