I hate Summer

For context, I am an immigrant and the Sun reminds me way too much of home. I wrote this originally in Spanish; hence, the tonal weirdness here

The truth is, I hate the sun.

Its light is the echo of a multitude of dead embraces.

The symbol of my eradicated lineage.

The Caribbean is our connective tissue, and without it, comes the angel of death.

That angel so pale, with an aristocratic air, who with his alabaster hands tears my man of corn to pieces.

My brothers are among the stars, sheltered by dreams.

I left my sense of belonging, but not my passion, tied to the rope.

Andean autumn, vacation frigidity.

I pass by like a ghost, I do and undo like the perfume of incense.

Bitterness comforts me, it carries me on its back to an eternal dawn.

Before seeing your face in the face of the sun and after saying goodnight to you,

I am in mourning and I huddle in my coat.

How cold, how lonely, and how cruel summer is.

At least October has the decency to cry with me.