On the street a page torn from a book and on one side this poem, on the other a map. It was the poem that made me keep the piece of paper and bring it home for further study.
Must I depart like this?
Like the flowers that perished?
Will nothing remain in my name?
Will nothing of my fame on earth persist?
At least flowers, at least songs!
from the Cantos de Huexotzingo which my searching has led me to the knowledge that the English translates lines in Spanish inscribed somewhere in the Mexican Museum of Anthropology and History. The quotation that caught my eye and fancy has on the obverse a map of “Mesoa Merica which appears below “Arid Merica” —— one hint that I was dealing with a guidebook was the indication of “Room 2”.
I like how the white space allows the poem to breathe, almost like an exhaling, a fading.
And so for day 1163