A Story of War, a poem and a story. Part 2 Guerrilla Poetry is a Lady and Some Means A Mier ...
"I spend very young with real fervor to poetry, through my long experience in this field of art, I have become convinced of the following:
I'm not the writer who wanted to be famous as a child and I'm sure most complete literary triumphs and concluded not give the writer or poet the immense pleasure that some suppose.
have to pay a price way too high, however, poetry is a lady and you have to make supreme sacrifices to serve. " Claudia Lars
In Berlin, by years 1978, among the coffee farms, where the hours are calculated by looking at the sun and the backbone of the day has different songs, I started my first verses, I wrote my first love story and the first novel of fear.
_Que learn to work that vague, to plant milpa and Ulises cocechar frijoles_Dijo One day my mother's brother and who beyond their sembradillos knew nothing. _A
day the world will know me as the poet, as the writer of many misterios_Me said.
In my teens I started my working life in one of the banks in the capital, I tried theater and journalism in case. I also made theater and I realized that literature was a part, such as meat bones amis, as something of mine, to which he could not escape. One afternoon
Costumes renounce banker, haircuts and a kiss on the front of my mother drew a bye, my wife left him on the lips a return soon and hug my children to take in his eyes the picture of them. Mexico, San Francisco, Miami, were some places, return to San Salvador months later a little puzzled Where were my compass of letters? Lair In what was he?
later came to New York, where for some inexplicable reason I decided to stay, perhaps knowing that there are groups of art.
I went up to their selfishness, their conflicts, its no future and its go anywhere in routine meetings. and I did not comrender aside the nauseating cancer in Us Why is it so difficult to recognize the success of another? Say an excellent, what a great job, a happy and live the victory of the like brothers.
in those days I thought my nines, when I dreamed myself in the main pages of a popular magazine or in a prestigious newspaper, rapt attention with verses and stories.
more homework, I realized how wrong I was, the media were nothing more than food ad guidelines and seek the support of the so called "Business Salvadorans, "was like taking a donkey to the church and hope that this will understand the priest.
Claudia Lars Comprendi then, poetry is a lady and you have to make supreme sacrifices, the price we pay is very high and sometimes even I have not won anything for what I do, poetry somehow saved me and anyone else I may understand that part ... (romeo molina)
Craft Verses
write verses Shy planted on the banks of the notebooks
white poems without workshops
dictates of my soul and poetic delivery of my hands
misspelled
feelings with s of more and accents ignored.
mutilated
semicolons so I write my verses
artisans.
(Romeo Molina) goes to the Boriqua (War Stories)
eyes seemed more Beyond night of the fireflies in the corners of Gotera, moon and stars were moving side to side and dressed in blue skirts the echo of the toads in the ponds populated it sounds and mystery.
A street lamp lit the house of Tomasa, a Boricua who had arrived in town on vacation from Ponce Puerto Rico, but smitten by the heat East Village had gone to live forever. She was the torment of Sergeant Perez and Paulino Rojas Guerrilla penalty.
For the sergeant, his life was like a car driven by her, he was just a passenger led nowhere. _The
sergeant is softening - They said the soldiers laughing behind their backs.
was less harsh since he loved her, more understandable and good people, the songs that made fun did before sighing.
did at dawn these walks toward the corners of the house and went to the rifle between his legs curled up, looking out the window, waiting for her to peep through the glass and offered him a smile.
the morning, she picked up the porch of her home two gifts, a bouquet of wild flowers cut from the hill and a red rose stolen from a house in the city, she laughed. _ Damn! These guys fuck pal Sistan.
Paulino Rojas fell before sunrise, left a bouquet of wreaths at his door and returned to the hill uphill writing your name on the fallen leaves of the trees. Sometimes typos left letters written on the canvas in the afternoon, redundant, hoping that you say them both open a gap and lead him into his arms.
He could not believe everything in matters of love, I had never loved as he loved Boriqua, Tomasa, was his first love.
The thought with him on the mountain, where the sun slips into the streams and death hangs around with drums on dusty roads. Two wars fought
these Men, on the homeland and the love of a woman How often forget that the fight put them face to face? Rojas still had on his shirt bummer hole that got him the sergeant and the military, even limping on his right leg by shrapnel from a grenade he launched the guerrilla.
decile veld _A handsome two naps, but I can not presume to be loved aceptal_ said. She made them see things that did not exist and made them believe they were flirting with hope. The sergeant was more consistent with the operations on the hill, trying to down one day with the body Rojas drawn, contrary to this, come back with their own dead on the back of the recruits.
_Algún day I get off a good shot to the fucking subversive _It said Perez. _When
these outposts fall, she will be mine alone and together sell lots heaven to live the days we are _ said the guerrilla.
wanted to give people free scripts, buy a plot in the sky, so that the poor sow stars and lit the light of dreams, to see the regiments knees drowned in his blood.
Sergeant Perez I wanted to burn down the hill to take off like rats from their burrows to the guerrillas. Winter came to camp guerrinche wetting the words and whipped with hurricane-like storms in the mountains. The death raised the flag in the trenches and fire spat regiments rump of the hill. _A
shot in the country and one in the Boriqua Sergeant _Gritaba up the hill.
never understood the love of Thomas was a walk without walking, there was no cause, steps a day thinking about the other night bitch unfinished street.
was cold, free as sewer rats, without owners, full of shadows and secrets, it was night whore in the dark desires of the people.
Rojas _ Why not look at this side? Here I am I've loved since complained siempre._ Meche, guerrilla companion Paul, had saved my skin many times, did not mind dying for.
kisses La Meche silences drowned and died in the mountains of sorrow and heartbreak.
There were times I wanted a regiment throw open her heart to empty all that feeling that he drowned.
Rojas knew
But what could I do? His heart was for Boriqua, those flirtations of a bitch in heat I had good asshole. Each day he left the trench of the camp and fell in secret, to leave by the door, a bunch of intent to cut into the sides of his soul and a subversive poem written by the brush of the forest.
the barracks, a CD of romantic boleros also arrived at the door the ungrateful.
Los Temerarios Eres Un Sueño, the indifference of Vicente Fernandez, among others ...
The fit in these boleros indifference and did not realize there was a third, Soriano Pelon, sell mother drunk bum without a job and no canteen. God makes no mistakes were made for each other. It came without waiting in line and left apendejada.
They ate in bed and Tomasa gave everything he had denied the guerrillas and a soldier. Realized Rojas and Sergeant, and barricaded themselves in the same pain for the first time shared the same sentiment. A Tomasa pain damn fools and laughing.
_Yo Hacel nothing I can not pol them, I'm panzon _Decía this bastard laughing like a hyena that sucks.
How sad! Boriqua imagine the rolling with another, the bald white meat gave those who were always in an attitude of surrender, but never arrived and dressed fools. That love was always a maybe, one can not be and it was not from the beginning.
From betrayal, black flowers and strawberries seemed bitter. Prisoners were crying until picked up the trail of their sentences and decided to forget it. Rojas broke the ticket I had to go to heaven and returned to earth to embrace his rifle, his only companion in agony.
Sergeant Perez was delivered to the chest of Chupaderos, his drinking led to the trench, the moon, heard their cries and looked through her tears and stones, occasionally, the night passed before his eyes trying to seduce him dressed in miniskirts. Lights as prostitutes times people offered him. he preferred the dark corners, the corners of a bar, the solitude of the river that was growing in his eyes. In the prelude to look Tomasa, left no footprints, the walls of his room were stained with semen of others, without images, as a market left.
_Mi sergeant, will bring a telegrama_ I said one day recruit Solano.
_
Who sends me? Is she? _No
Sergeant is the barracks.
" On orders from high command
Gather your men to accompany the third infantry brigade San Miguel to an operation on the hill."
And
Sgt prepared his backpack, got into it wanting to die and oiled his gun in an empty hole dropped her future and went to the front of the operation.
Tomasa watched the house and whispered ... _
Damn! If only I would have liked a bit, your love saved me today.
last looked toward the door where he dreamed of entering the arm with the love and sighed deeply. _
Sergeant Is it okay? Do not want to go and kill those bastards? _Pregunto Solano.
_Hoy going to die with this pain in my hands, I will die with her back to what I love ... I wish that I forgot a bullet through the heart.
wore boots in the desire to die, and went, raising the slopes of the hill looking for insurgents.
Two days ago ... The people came
an informant to the guerrilla camp.
_Viene an operation supported by the 3rd Brigade of San Miguel _Les said.
Ambushes were ready since then and the sidewalks were mined, eager to cut off the legs of the battalion.
_Ahí regiment dogs come _Dijo La Meche aiming his AK 47, and if I die this day, to say it in the press, who suffered from dementia by amarte_ He shouted to Rojas.
_Perdóname, Tu I'd avoid that pain.
_Aun loving too late to Paulino. Q: If we
this Meche, I grout with you.
She smiled and he came over to kiss her hair.
_ Paulino Do you swear?
_Te swear, I swear partner.
and lay on the edge of the cliffs waiting for the enemy, sounded more down booby traps and knelt the tanks.
were at 3:20 afternoon when the confrontation began, deafening roar of bombs and machine guns. Night fell
lit with explosions and fighting continued into the early hours before dawn, the battalion was confused a few soldiers who set aside downhill.
The guerrillas roamed the battle zone to collect their dead and the army, only a dozen soldiers were killed under the trees. Paulino
sought to Meche He was alive, his face and clothes smoked torn by thorns which dragged firing bullets. Together they walked
observed the fallen soldiers and stopped to see the dead body of Sergeant Perez, his chest past the rifle in one hand and the other a photograph of Tomasa. Paulino took off the towel that was thrown over his shoulder and bent to cover the body of the man.
_ Why do that?
Rojas took off his cap and looked ...
_This
man let himself be killed for not suffer for that damn, this it took the Boriqua. _
Why feel sorry for him? He was an enemy.
Paul put his arm and said
_One
writer named Albert Camus said: "When two men are deceived by the same woman, they become family."
were taken from hands and climbed the hills to camp.
Three days later ...
On the cover of the newspaper printed the picture out of a bald encunetado on the outskirts of town, had been executed with bullets during night, said that a guerrilla down from the mountains and dragged him to the banks.
The Boriqua, still lives in town, working in the canteen Awakening owned by a fag named Rudy, and nobody respects it, say now is more Puta, alcohol and ugly , with cellulite on her ass, well, ruined kidding.
Past day, a reporter slipped through the camp and interviewed Paulino Rojas.
__ Do you think will win the war? _The
win, the people are with us.
_ What about love? What can you tell me a warrior of love? Paulino
put the rifle aside and snapped his fingers ...
_No
I speak of love, because it is about a woman whom he loved and left only a handful of rubble, talking about it, is want to resurrect a dying issue, sometimes love as Neruda says:
is get us where we do not exist.
And I look at Meche
... I have found at last Here, amid these green hills, and now I'm on a road where happiness reaches me and seduces me.
guerrilla Kiss the lips and went looking for a nest in the trenches, to keep loving ... and keep loving.
(Romeo Molina)
Rights Reserved Vocesylibertad with the permission of Romeo Molina, author of Love and a gun was taken from which this story ...
Published La Estrella de Panama and Otramérica . 
