A photocopy of Guernica lies moaning in the desert,
less beautiful than the original but just as ugly.
In the same white envelope a newspaper clipping
with no backbone and a date constantly changing
shows a different woman holding a different baby.
The tears are the same but they recede with the tide.
She can only hold your focus for a moment
before you begin to reel in your own world,
and the scene takes on shades of comic relief
like an old joke about Jesus and Moses golfing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem