Another April, Too Cruel by José Mármol

"A pain silently cuts, like lightning"

Another April, Too Cruel

by José Mármol

                       To all the victims of the collapse  
                        of the Jet Set, in memoriam

A smell of recently scattered benzene,
of the defeat of the landscape in the middle of a clear night,
of the condemnation of life, its silhouettes, its sorrows.
Words fail to find support in words,
and silence becomes a treacherous sonata in a dance of laments.
A pain silently cuts, like lightning, I sense it,
the arc in which the vowels placed their accents.
And prayer is drowned, and breath forbids itself that sigh,
that of the quiet goodbye, that of the cry unburied amid the rubble.
It was the reaper, fierce plane in hand, arriving dizzily, without a trace of remorse,
to level the party, to slash smiles, desires.
Stupor, diffuse rage, resentful humiliation of the most devious fate.
There is no needle, no knife, rusty dagger, stingray’s edge that could deepen the wounds where it hurts most.
The 7th passes as always, wrapped in mystery.
The 8th arrives, bloodied, made of fear, drunk with terror,
in the cruel month of April, that of the weak lilacs on the wounded earth.
Flowing with rage. Overflowing with stupor.
In familiar sadness, the hours grew slower,
the early morning dew more humid,
the sea’s crooning more solemn and bitter,
to find in their faces the reckless siege,
incomprehensible and sullen,
the indecipherable call of requiem and death.

First Published in Words Without Borders (2025). Translated by Eileen O’Connor.