The Visitor

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching
the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

by Carolyn Forché

Comments (4)

Very good poem but the final line, though true, does not really add anything new. The poem is tragic enough without this observation. The poem fits well with these times of xenophobia over immigration.
A small country! Thanks for sharing.
'' There is nothing one man will not do to another. '' '' Niente c'è, che un uomo non possa fare ad un altro '' The pure truth!
This is full of emotion and power. Economical with words but not with its impact. It's excellent. Thank you.