First Rain

by Roque Dalton (El Salvador)
translated by Margaret Randall

When the season of large ants arrives
we know dust and water have taken vows
horses dream through the day’s early hours
like huge insects fallen on a sponge
what sort of fervent combat do we yearn for?
corn will return to its beginnings
tripping over our bodies
the horizon is a scaffolding for trophies
for displaying them in a lineage of dynamited hills
does your anger speak to the rain?
hope is made of moss, or it’s not hope