NaPoWriMo # 45 Despierta Boricua, despierta!
Epistle to future poets Poems are long avenues where our burning rage marches. Everywhere the crying, everywhere a black wall besieged. Could our poetry be a solitary column of dew? It has to be perpetual thunder as long as children stare at a loaf of bread with envy. There are higher things to mourn than lost lovers: the sound of a society finally awakening is more beautiful than the dew, the glittering metal of its anger more beautiful than sea foam. A free man is purer than a diamond.