Lullaby for a Country Flooded in Tears
The satellite image
of hurricane Mitch
reminds me of the first time
I saw cotton candy being spun.
Sweet childhood memories
now displaced by this
other bitter image
of sky unleashing a deluge
without warning,
without a white-bearded Noah
to ring the alarm,
to let us seek refuge in his Ark.
Water transformed to muck inhabits us.
A drowning volcano rumbles
And people are swept off the earth,
Torn from the warmth of their families.
In their pupils remains only the image
of the last rains they will ever see.
Where will I harbor this country of mine
so that nothing else shall harm it?
Nicaragua, wounded, bleeds mud
from the open fissures in its heart.
My little country,
who will heal you?
Who will shelter you
now that sodden volcanos
slump their burdened summits,
now that the time has come
to soothe the rivers and calm the feverish lakes?
Who, after the raging and thunder,
will sing a lullaby to quiet you,
to rekindle your faith,
to let you rise above the leafy hills
and make out the horizon.
What are you telling us,
my torrential, inclement country,
your breast heaving with sighs?
Is it the rain crying out?
Could it be, my country of cloudforests,
that this water chant implores us
to cleanse your wounds,
and rock you like a child,
tired of so much crying,
so that vour miseries may be forgotten
and with a common love
we silence your thundering despair?
My land of fire and water
you have spoken the harsh language
of bedeviled fury.
Sssh. Hush now, little one,
you're tired of crying.
Who will sing a lullaby to Nicaragua?
Let's begin. All of us.
Let's open the sky
over this country so flooded in tears.
Rest Nicaragua.
Rest my love.
Sleep my brave little country.
Gioconda Belli, December 1998
Translated from the Spanish by Charles Castaldi
of hurricane Mitch
reminds me of the first time
I saw cotton candy being spun.
Sweet childhood memories
now displaced by this
other bitter image
of sky unleashing a deluge
without warning,
without a white-bearded Noah
to ring the alarm,
to let us seek refuge in his Ark.
Water transformed to muck inhabits us.
A drowning volcano rumbles
And people are swept off the earth,
Torn from the warmth of their families.
In their pupils remains only the image
of the last rains they will ever see.
Where will I harbor this country of mine
so that nothing else shall harm it?
Nicaragua, wounded, bleeds mud
from the open fissures in its heart.
My little country,
who will heal you?
Who will shelter you
now that sodden volcanos
slump their burdened summits,
now that the time has come
to soothe the rivers and calm the feverish lakes?
Who, after the raging and thunder,
will sing a lullaby to quiet you,
to rekindle your faith,
to let you rise above the leafy hills
and make out the horizon.
What are you telling us,
my torrential, inclement country,
your breast heaving with sighs?
Is it the rain crying out?
Could it be, my country of cloudforests,
that this water chant implores us
to cleanse your wounds,
and rock you like a child,
tired of so much crying,
so that vour miseries may be forgotten
and with a common love
we silence your thundering despair?
My land of fire and water
you have spoken the harsh language
of bedeviled fury.
Sssh. Hush now, little one,
you're tired of crying.
Who will sing a lullaby to Nicaragua?
Let's begin. All of us.
Let's open the sky
over this country so flooded in tears.
Rest Nicaragua.
Rest my love.
Sleep my brave little country.
Gioconda Belli, December 1998
Translated from the Spanish by Charles Castaldi
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