The Green Fire in the Branch
for Victor Jara on the 25th anniversary of his death
They killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
They crushed his hands and twisted them out of their sockets They gouged out her eyes, raped and shot her and pushed her over the ledge into the garbage hole
They killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
They heard her laugh with the boys at night They saw her wipe their tears and touch their lips They felt the life swell in her womb and they felt the throb of bitterness in their knees The death of truth became the lie they told
Their mothers spewed poison into their intestines so they went and killed her They wrapped her in a blanket They hit her in the head until blood ran And they did their evil act, the one the priest talks about
They killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
They heard him laugh with his chidlren They heard him sing in the evening under the eucalyptus trees and felt the mist of the morning scald their eyes They felt the richness of his words and saw the people grow strong in their weakness feed on the words like bread when the baskets are empty or when the wine glass has gone dry
They drank the song and found gall They heard the words and felt fear They saw the dreams and cried for shame
So they killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
They were our friends We wash clothes in the same water They walk the same concrete They eat the same food Their children play with ours on the grass and their homes fill with the same light Their waste mingles with ours Their blood runs in our veins Their lungs fill with the same air
They hate like we hate They love like we love They use words I can hear and believe
They killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
It lies in a hole with dirt on top It rots and stinks the air It is purtrid and disgusts them But we come and kiss his knees we kiss the broken hands and the torn womb We wipe away the worms and brush her hair We lay our mouths on the grey and stiff lips We try blowing into lungs the rage that must make them live again But she will not rise on hatred She will not ride the breeze of sorrow They will rise only when the song begins again Only when the voice quivers with visions and words tear wide the tombs
They killed life They killed the green fire in the branch
When the cry for right is heard when truth is told without bitterness when the stones are thrown by boys in the cool of the evening The memories we have of them will crowd around the tables filled with food and the sacred silence hollow the day with joy
chuck miller http://www.users.uswest.net/~bautiste/index.htm
-- http://www.users.uswest.net/~bautiste/index.htm