Trees

In this city of beatings
the trees have been imprisoned
with bars of concrete.

From my window
I see their branches trying to reach
a trembling mirror which encloses
the sleeping wind.

That is why
I still keep the portrait of their leaves
in a suspended hour
and I sleep on the edge of a dagger
until the night is dissolved.

Venus Ixchel Mejía, Honduras (1979)

Translation Germain Droogenbroodt