FRONT

by
Jose Moreno Villa

This is the front. Here
No sign of play.
Books have no meaning.
This is the front, hard and dry,
The bullet and the human body,
The earth and the scavenger birds,
The head and the hand
And the heart and steel.
The mounting and lowering of cannons
On hills stunned with fear.
To face bayonets and helmets without flinching
And never leave one's post.
To follow the tanks
That are monsters of sound.
To neither eat nor drink
Nor sleep all day.
To come out with one's head **still high**
Or quiet on the stretcher-bearer's canvas.

Translated from the Spanish
by Langston Hughes