The poets unsent postcard

by paolo macariola

here is the country
where i was born
where there are storms most of the time
and where we observe the passing of months
counting sunsets
here is a country of war, of schizo priests and dead journalists
where statues of virgins
are worshiped on the streets
the devout leaving their homes barren of food for the children
here is a country of torn jungles
where the origin of man
is the trunk of a tree
where there are shamans and witchdoctors,
where saints and soothsayers never differ
here is a country of rain forests and seashores
of saints and superstition
of guns and schizophrenia

this was your country too,
where loved ones leave through the horizon
and poets die waiting for airplanes
by the sunset