Not even the moon bore witness
To the betrayal of the sleeping prince
Lying motionless, lifeless, dead
On the edge of a Spanish wheat field

Out of the bullet holes
Poured his words
Like thick red blood
Seeping into the earth

No tears were shed
No broken hearts
No ceremonies or laments
No one knew he was gone

His crime was his truth
His crime was his work
His crime was his passion
His crime was his word

How important his words
How critical, how frightening
How beautiful his words
How truthful, how free

Bullets could not stop his words
The earth could not hold his words…

One day

the people

found

his words

And the players played his words
And the singers sang his words
And the dancers danced his words
And the dreamers dreamed his words
And the poets envied his words
And the painters painted his words
And the shouters shouted his words
And the lovers loved his words

And his words lived on
And his words changed lives
Larga Vida Las Palabras!
Long live the words!
sc2013