To a Santiago laundrywoman

My cousin who lived by her washtub
passed away suddenly, her life stifled
they cracked her skull from one blow with a club:
The butt of a soldier's rifle.
From the abyss of her broken head
rise the creams and fraternal songs,
enter each living, each dead
causing the generals to tremble along.
Laundry too dirty to wash at home
so much blood will still remain
from washer to washer, it is submerged.
A stained regiment, passing, will roam.
Uniforms bearing enormous stains
not even the purgatory's purgator can purge. 

—Oscar Hahn

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