Guilty

by. Angélica Santa Olaya

I declare myself guilty
of trying -sometimes-
to walk with a wing strap
on my distracted eyes


Guilty of smiling
-occasionally-
and looking for almonds
and fresh cranberries
to adorn the frame
of my window
whilst the sneaky
merchants of screams
wash off their pockets
with the blood of the elderly,
of women and innocent children
on the other side of the world

I declare myself guilty
of writing with the whole hand
when there is a place
-which I may not see, however exists-
where a head is rolling
beneath the claws of some vulture I declare myself guilty of living
eating, dancing, beating...
in this cauldron of ashes
which we stir
repeatedly
with the fragile spoon of the verb

There is nothing as endlessly
guilty -and sad-
as the words being used to protect
a vulnerable human being
who is eager to keep smiling...