I know you know

On September eleventh
of seventy three
Americans
among other things fucked Chile over
giving the power
to the local fascists
to begin their
mass torture orgy
Thoughts like this are after me
while I try to confess
clear the way through
withholding nothing
as Branko did
to his friend Zijo
whom bloodthirsty slayers of Jasenovac
killed long ago
and he still keeps telling him
how he looked for Sevilla street
to which Black Horsemen
took Lorca
never to walk out of it again
In a letter he reminds him of others
Goran’s black executioners
and these new multicolored ones
their torture methods perfected
they’ll always be after us
like we aren’t enough of a punishment
onto ourselves
But this night doesn’t belong to me
and that story
will bare darkness of a different kind
For this reason the letter will not meet an envelope
marked with your name
You will outlive me
For now I beg of you
learn who Victor Jara is
and what his hands mean to us