Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Armando Romero

About Assassins


I
The assassins smelled of cattle and earth though they usually traveled in jeeps or cars deliberately black. When he was a child he shared the love of the tangos that made them weep with emotion whenever he paused at the door of their bars, lost in the deathly sweetness of an accordion. His brother, terrified, pleaded with him to come along home, but they smiled gently with their horse teeth in complicity: the gleam in their eyes forever in contrast with the gleam of their weapons.


II
Nobody ever got killed in El Pijao\'s bar that I know of, though the killers drank cheap liquor and sang Mexican cowboy songs and tangos till daybreak. But in Don Miguel\'s place, where there was a lovely tree and they gave him a sugared almond every time he bought something for his mother, the poor man was shot down that night as he asked for water, please, banging on all the windows.


III
He too was eaten up by his own fury each time he heard the killers bringing loneliness as they marched, muttering. If it was night time they dragged their feet as though they were broomsticks ordered to sweep the yard; in the afternoon only the harsh sun challenged the anger of their weapons on the barroom table. He wanted to line them up and take his sling shot to them, but mother\'s double lock kept him indoors just before dinner, when the curfew sounded that commanded solitude.


IV
That afternoon in Cincinnati I was talking to H. about the survivors, and we remembered the cotton-soft worker in the textile factory, the bootblack in the Plaza de Caycedo, the toothless whore called Divina who had a yellow skirt, and others who were doctors and lawyers with their pincers. We were silent, when suddenly, unexpectedly, there came the shouts of the killers.


V
When he heard him cry out his father stopped reading: the murderers had taken over his dreams now. Carefully, gently, they carried him to bed and mother said: Don\'t read any more to that boy, it upsets him.

DE LOS ASESINOS

DE LOS ASESINOS


I
Los asesinos olían a vaca y tierra aunque de común via-jaban en jeeps
o en automóviles negros a conciencia. En su niñez compartía con
ellos un amor a los tangos que los hacía llorar de emoción cuando
él se detenía al borde de sus cantinas a escuchar, perdido en la
dulzura mortal de los bandoneones. Su hermano, aterrorizado, le
rogaba que siguiera a casa, y ellos sonreían tiernos y cómplices
con sus dientes a caballo: el brillo de sus ojos contrastaba
eterno con el brillo de sus armas.


II
En la cantina de El Pijao nunca mataron a nadie, que yo sepa, aunque
los asesinos bebían aguardiente y  canta-ban rancheras y tangos
hasta la madrugada. Pero en la de Don Miguel, donde había un
árbol hermoso y le regalaban una almendra de dulce cada vez que
com-praba algo para su madre, murió abaleado el pobre hombre que
esa noche pedía agua, por favor, golpean-do en todas las ventanas.


III
Del pasto de las fieras también comía su rabia cuando en el desfile
de la soledad oía el murmullo de los asesi-nos. Si era en la
noche arrastraban sus pies como si fue-ran chamizas puestas a
barrer el patio; si era en la tarde sólo el sol violento
desafiaba la ira de sus armas en la mesa de la cantina. Ganas
daban de sacar la cauchera y ponerlos a raya, pero a doble llave
su madre lo encerra-ba cuando, antecito de la cena, el toque de
queda dic-tando la soledad se quedaba.


IV
De los sobrevivientes hablaba con H. aquella tarde en Cincinnati y
recordamos al obrero blando de algodón en la fábrica de telas, al
limpiador de zapatos en la Plaza de Caycedo, a la prostituta sin
dientes que se  lla-maba Divina y tenía una pollera amarilla, y a
otros que fueron doctores y abogados con sus tenazas. Nos que-
damos en silencio cuando vino de improviso el aullido de los
asesinos.


V
Cuando oyó su grito el padre suspendió la lectura: los asesinos se
habían apoderado de sus sueños. Con cui-dado y dulzura lo
llevaron hasta la cama y la madre dijo: No hay que leerle más a
este muchacho, se le suben los nervios.
Close

About Assassins


I
The assassins smelled of cattle and earth though they usually traveled in jeeps or cars deliberately black. When he was a child he shared the love of the tangos that made them weep with emotion whenever he paused at the door of their bars, lost in the deathly sweetness of an accordion. His brother, terrified, pleaded with him to come along home, but they smiled gently with their horse teeth in complicity: the gleam in their eyes forever in contrast with the gleam of their weapons.


II
Nobody ever got killed in El Pijao\'s bar that I know of, though the killers drank cheap liquor and sang Mexican cowboy songs and tangos till daybreak. But in Don Miguel\'s place, where there was a lovely tree and they gave him a sugared almond every time he bought something for his mother, the poor man was shot down that night as he asked for water, please, banging on all the windows.


III
He too was eaten up by his own fury each time he heard the killers bringing loneliness as they marched, muttering. If it was night time they dragged their feet as though they were broomsticks ordered to sweep the yard; in the afternoon only the harsh sun challenged the anger of their weapons on the barroom table. He wanted to line them up and take his sling shot to them, but mother\'s double lock kept him indoors just before dinner, when the curfew sounded that commanded solitude.


IV
That afternoon in Cincinnati I was talking to H. about the survivors, and we remembered the cotton-soft worker in the textile factory, the bootblack in the Plaza de Caycedo, the toothless whore called Divina who had a yellow skirt, and others who were doctors and lawyers with their pincers. We were silent, when suddenly, unexpectedly, there came the shouts of the killers.


V
When he heard him cry out his father stopped reading: the murderers had taken over his dreams now. Carefully, gently, they carried him to bed and mother said: Don\'t read any more to that boy, it upsets him.

About Assassins


I
The assassins smelled of cattle and earth though they usually traveled in jeeps or cars deliberately black. When he was a child he shared the love of the tangos that made them weep with emotion whenever he paused at the door of their bars, lost in the deathly sweetness of an accordion. His brother, terrified, pleaded with him to come along home, but they smiled gently with their horse teeth in complicity: the gleam in their eyes forever in contrast with the gleam of their weapons.


II
Nobody ever got killed in El Pijao\'s bar that I know of, though the killers drank cheap liquor and sang Mexican cowboy songs and tangos till daybreak. But in Don Miguel\'s place, where there was a lovely tree and they gave him a sugared almond every time he bought something for his mother, the poor man was shot down that night as he asked for water, please, banging on all the windows.


III
He too was eaten up by his own fury each time he heard the killers bringing loneliness as they marched, muttering. If it was night time they dragged their feet as though they were broomsticks ordered to sweep the yard; in the afternoon only the harsh sun challenged the anger of their weapons on the barroom table. He wanted to line them up and take his sling shot to them, but mother\'s double lock kept him indoors just before dinner, when the curfew sounded that commanded solitude.


IV
That afternoon in Cincinnati I was talking to H. about the survivors, and we remembered the cotton-soft worker in the textile factory, the bootblack in the Plaza de Caycedo, the toothless whore called Divina who had a yellow skirt, and others who were doctors and lawyers with their pincers. We were silent, when suddenly, unexpectedly, there came the shouts of the killers.


V
When he heard him cry out his father stopped reading: the murderers had taken over his dreams now. Carefully, gently, they carried him to bed and mother said: Don\'t read any more to that boy, it upsets him.
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