When a Poet Dies

there will be no daylight, and the rain never stops

for one whole month, the entire city grieves
in the open. For the first time, there is a shadow
of our grave in every space. The shells of turtles
and the eyes of owls glimmer in the imploding
realm of nicotine and beer. Wet chrysanthemums
and tiny sunflowers are abundant in the ocean
of sadness. Pebbles of flesh are being offered
to the earth. The candles burn in the middle
of extraneous prayers and monotonous sighs.
Our world crumbles in ashes. And the whore waits
in the opaque corner of the street, with her smile
that glows like the ashen shade of the moon,
where there is an old acacia with no leaves.
--Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena