I have a bullet made of icy silver to give you.
I prepared it last night with dirty, sweet, infallible blood. I prayed
with it for hours. I attended it with candles and the most secret
First off, I blinded it, because a bullet must never see the ominous air
or the body it will encounter. After, I deafened it, so that it wouldn’t
hear the cries or threats or music of the flesh and bones while shattering.
I only left its lips so it could whistle.
Understand what I say:
whistles are bullets’ words: they are their ruthless final kisses piercing
the smoothness of the night; their wonder and their plea, their breath.
by Carlos López Degregori
translation 2010, Robin Myers
publisher: PIW, 2010