Artículo Agregado a "Conversations of the dead "
, Uruguay


A black robed muslim
I might have been
treading a Baghdad street

lurking in mourning
the sleepless road
covering my lips
with the same black cloth

and bear my children naked
as Westerners do

Kneeling in the Mosque
for patience and survival

Screaming the death
of a silent son
in a desert battle

slap mine own face
in lament

Wrinkle my face
as my hands are wrinkled
from sand and stone
and labor dumb

Stubborn black
sinful and pious
stoic and skeptical
of Western good intentions

Abombed a-ravaged
violated in my own humble home

Enduring the
weight of the black
over my shoulders
and my head

Drying the tears
of a hundred generations

Raising no flag
but the slain child´s coffin
of missiles gone astray
and in crossfire

Cooking the couscous
in slow boiling steam
and my pain as slow
instilling thoughts of Revenge
in the growth of my Womb

Black and relentless
pale and dry
Muslim Woman
a Muslim womb

to bear my child alone
beneath rainfire
caught in the game of War
of our soil´s blood

A muslim woman
I might have been
behind the face
of wisdom and suffering

Yet I must see all
through a lit glass screen
and see the war in Al-shazira
and watch the vulturous
mouth speak of freedom

and see the black robed
woman carrying child
and mourning son
and empathize
and know her to be

the Woman
I might have been


A muslim woman
I might have been
treading a Muslim land

a-cry a-suffer bombed
(gauged to holy Silenceness)
adrift in Oceansand

and lie alone
after the bomb
in desert Baghdad streets
wrapped in a robe
of black and blood
with Western liberation
oozing out of my
Womb, persistently

a River of civilization


A black robed muslim
I might have been
treading a desert road

carrying a baby close to my breast
clasping with worn hands
an infant wrist
our steps in unison
to pierce the Desert silence

As aimless arrows
so, forth we go
along the path
of thirst

With ears a-numbed
to bluber and need
and the fortitude
of mountains

Metallic vultures hovering
over our heads

Air thick with
petroleum smoke

Sandscape of
devastated hope

Dry breasts
and empty hands

our lengthened shadows
just amiss
of bombs

Dragging my children
to life elusive

with the black veil
and the dry eyes
and the fortitude
of life

Montevideo, winter 2003