Country and country

I met you between Libertador Avenue and Ecuador 

among a country without elections and one built on corruption.

I met you between accent and accent, where I say: “Don’t we all talk from the same root?”

“But the blood in which they grew was different” Is the answer my grandmother gives to the fly that rests on her dry skin. 

I met you while you flee in my streets to go to the next one because this one was sinking faster than yours.

You told me to follow you because rats smell first the decay and that vulture's circle before devouring. 

However, I stayed while you crossed mountains that were on fire and I heard no more from you.

I met him between killed trees and those roads retained by the toll of open legs and the value of an organ. 

They warned me that I wouldn’t get out of there alive, yet I explained to them that from where I escaped there was no more life to sacrifice for. 

They met me between my country that was closing its doors from all who sought to survive but that too late saw the blood run. 

And now I tell them that they met me between country and country. That I was dying and groaning because the dice were thrown and there was no shadow between all the sins. 

T.A.