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By Roberto Sosa, a translation

The poor are many

and so --

impossible to forget.

No doubt,

as day breaks,

they see the buildings

where they wish

they could live with their children.

They

can steady the coffin

of a constellation on their shoulders.

They can wreck

the air like furious birds,

blocking the sun.

But not knowing these gifts,

they enter and exit through mirrors of blood,

walking and dying slowly.

And so,

one cannot forget them.

The Poor

Spencer Reece

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