We are speechless, yes. 
Speechless because you, like us, are mortal.
The Romantics say that Augusto Pinochet killed you.
That is patently untrue.  Your voice was too bold
for him to silence.
Blood flowed in your urine;
cancer took you from your pen; 
disease ransacked your body, 
the way your houses were ransacked
soon after your wake.

You left us nothing but the bristling foliage -
you cut a gorge through our hearts.
Why did you make us see
the granite alongside the jasper,
or the red copihues dangling
like drops from the forest's arteries?
Why have you gone -
dancing between the water and sunlight?
We have yet to bend to our own light;
we have yet to love the Word in infinite ways.              
                                                                                                  (susan)

Fat bastard, lleno de horror
temor de encontrar el ultimo en tu verso
como lo creyera?, es lo que creiste que nos hubieramos acudido
a lo inpentrable? Que de hubris, que de amor.
malvado de pensamiento, lleno de nuevo
de lo aspero, de verduras, de canciones
del tipo que uno no se puede cantarse al si mismo en el noche de terror y bombas, y cuchillas del soldadito.
Ni el horror de la bomba que nos llevaste, del Salvador, ni de Cuba, nos puede causar el pueblo adormido a despertar...
Que ya vamos a curarsenos, de lo del
Pinochet, de lo de la matanza, de lo que
no sobreviviste para escribir, ni traducir, ni transladar,
alli en tu nido tan alto, sobre las olas,
tantos metros de distancia que nos separe, que horror de conocerte, de encontrarte
alli, entremedio las olas, y el nido del condor...
                                                                                                 (professor)

Hope is not contained within the ruins.
No utopia there for hopeless country boys like you.
Poets meet their deaths violently, betrayed.
Not one single rose can remain.
You are no great cholo -
Your edges are too smooth to the touch, to the ear.
Your power slips under the skin instead,
unlike the wild boar or the bear.
It is a good thing, for your sake,
that you do not treat your friends as writers.                            
                                                                                                (susan)

We are speechless, yes. 
Speechless, because we discover you are only a man.
The romantics say Augusto Pinochet killed you.
That is untrue.  Your voice is too bold
for anyone to silence.
Blood flowing in your urine,
the cancer took you from your pen; 
disease ransacked your body, 
the way your houses were ransacked
soon after your wake.

You leave us nothing but the bristling foliage -
you cut a gorge through our hearts.
Why do you make us see
the granite alongside the jasper,
or the red copihues dangling
like drops from the forest's arteries?
Why have you gone -
dancing between the water and sunlight?
We have yet to bend to our own light;
we have yet to love the Word in infinite ways.              
                                                                                                  (susan)

Fat bastard, lleno de horror
temor de encontrar el ultimo en tu verso
como lo creyera?, es lo que creiste que nos hubieramos acudido
a lo inpentrable? Que de hubris, que de amor.
malvado de pensamiento, lleno de nuevo
de lo aspero, de verduras, de canciones
del tipo que uno no se puede cantarse al si mismo en el noche de terror y bombas, y cuchillas del soldadito.
Ni el horror de la bomba que nos llevaste, del Salvador, ni de Cuba, nos puede causar el pueblo adormido a despertar...
Que ya vamos a curarsenos, de lo del
Pinochet, de lo de la matanza, de lo que
no sobreviviste para escribir, ni traducir, ni transladar,
alli en tu nido tan alto, sobre las olas,
tantos metros de distancia que nos separe, que horror de conocerte, de encontrarte
alli, entremedio las olas, y el nido del condor...
                                                                                                 (professor)

Hope is not contained within the ruins.
No utopia there for hopeless country boys like you.
Poets meet their deaths violently, betrayed.
Not one single rose remains.
You are no great cholo -
Your edges are too smooth to the touch, to the ear.
Your power slips under the skin instead,
unlike the wild boar or the bear.
It is a good thing, for your sake,
that you do not treat your friends as writers.                            
                                                                                                (susan)

Do you think you are the only one
who wants to be left alone
with your murderous thoughts,
with your wounded terrain,
burying each savage thread?
No one wants to call you,
unless you want to be called,
by name!
You are not the only one
who has no time.        
                                                                                                (susan)