by Allan Safarik
Blood in the beautiful blonde hair
of el presidente's youthful consort
blood on her dreadfully gashed lips
almost bitten off by the passionate beast
blood on his chauffeur's white gloves
stuffed down her pretty throat
A hand puts a gun to a head
and fires a slug into the sunshine
between a man's eyes while he's
reading his newspaper
in a boulevard cafe
everybody stays down
on the floor for five minutes
a procedure the authorities recommend
to enhance the chances of long life
the sun beats against the bloody
Rorschach blot on the adobe wall
once again the only witness is dead
The horror of truth slaughtered
everyday on newscasts
vivid mental pictures
soaking up newspaper pages
blood on the hands
of the investigators,
the doctors, the coroners,
the generals, the ministers
of church and state
Archbishop Romero's blood
in the laundry of the ruling class
in the homes of the assassins
their friends, families, countrymen
in their nurseries smeared
on their immaculate babies
Archbishop Romero's blood
in their waste buckets
in their white kitchen pails,
dripping in their bathroom sinks,
around the old urinals
in the football parks
bloody fingerprints
on the golden faucets
in the country clubs
Martyr's blood
puddling in daydreams
and in sleep
the blood, the blood
never stops flowing
on cathedral stairs,
or in the streets
