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We ate the forehead
of silence.

The dead came
with their neighbors’ blood
smeared on the blue of their chests,
their heads broken,
with handkerchiefs
over their eyelids.

The dreams choked
on the crowns of mescal.
The dead were marked by rain
and their eyes showed
years of mist
and fresh serpents.

The dead always dream.
They dream of their
moth-eaten brows
and celebrate the gods of lead,
playing their tambourines
on their blank faces.

How strong our hands
of forgotten lily!

With the water of turtles,
the dead will come to anoint
the ears of deliberate silence,
to tear the vase’s shadow,
to criticize the mouths of crows,
to clean the dead blood
of blonde faces.

Together,
we will liberate the oppressed roses.