Los Futuros Imaginados

l o s f u t u r o s i m a g i n a d o s 172 173 Monotonous in days, in hours, in minutes seconds bite their restless past. Nothing happens here, time doesn’t eat us away. There’s no God here, nor the sky has a feeling of Him. Here dream sinks in a farewell of voices and words that never say anything. Santiago doesn’t remember its name neither its steps. The awful province sleeps in a nightmare of twisting towers and senseless streets. The vile memory writes in the lone mountain: Santiago doesn’t exist anymore, Santiago hasn’t existed. This we’re living through is another alien dream. And don’t even dare conjuring that grief of death, of pale countenances in those old pictures. Don’t go tearing your robes as a sign of other people`s endless mourning. Santiago hasn’t cried nor cries for its fate, this city surrenders to the vile architect who will raze it down to its foundations. This city surrenders to the commanding voice that even now unravels it, humiliates it, disgraces it. Don’t go crying or intoning a song funereal and serene, as if everything was nothing. In the middle of the square I remember those who then kept silence before the master of all misfortunes. c a p í t u l o 2 . P o s i c i o n e s a r t í s t i c a s e n l a i n t e m p e r i e The sky falls to pieces, is a figure of speech, and it falls: The same green or grey sky, the same sky and the city hides, escapes, bleeds to death and the city turns off its lights and falls silent. The Cordillera falls over the sleeping city. The whole Cordillera buries its raving. Stones pierce the bodies, the windows and every square explodes in a vast wasteland. No one becomes aware of such a quiet death, no one regrets, neither cries nor swears. The city sinks and falls into the void of time and the ghosts of hatred and oblivion. // andrés morales n o c t u r n e o f s a n t i a g o