Has The Dead Arrived?

Everybody is singing the songs of dead, and
Nobody really cares if it has, indeed, arrived?

I have known a long time ago, even
Before I wasn’t conceived inside my mother’s womb,
For a matter of fact, that time,
Mother, all of a virgin and naïve
She didn’t even know who my father would be, and
That someday, I will be writing poems on the dead.

My father, he is still a proud man, with little money
And my mother, worried about the future, pray
Every night and quietly my plan weaves in the dark
For another poem, for another dead poem!

Today, as I write another dead poem,
Existence becomes a mockery and it ridicules
The passion, that we called life!

These dead poems, I worry
Had they borne along with me, in their shadow
Of innocence and pittance, to celebrate
Subjugation as debt of alliance;
Those dead poems, I worry
Had they conspired along a generation, in the shadow
Of illiteracy and exploitation, to mark
The extinction of a clan!

Lot more dead poems
Lot more dead poems
Dead poems from classrooms
Dead poems from kitchens
Dead poems from farms
Dead poems from offices
These dead poems, they can’t be silent witness
These dead poems, they are the songs of our time!

My worried mother, she called me back home
She has graves ready for each of my dead poems
So I asked:
Has the dead arrived?