Babblers are cantankerous birds, so loud sometimes that I don’t prefer them. Rufous babblers though are confined only to Rufous babblers created one big raucous when they saw me. They are dark rufous colored with grey forehead and a relatively longer tail. The iris is whitish that really give them a nasty look. Like other babblers they too are found mainly close to the ground.
Cesar Vellajo (1892-1938)
He was one of the most prominent Spanish American poets of the last century, an iconic figure in 
in his Peruvian Indian heritage. "A constant feature of his poetry is a compassionate awareness of and a guilt-ridden sense of responsibility for the suffering of others. He saw the world in piercing flashes of outrage and anguish, terror and pity. . . . A passionate, tragic poet, he mourned our loss of moral innocence and despaired of the injustice that moves the world" (Grossman). A witness to the devastation of Spanish civil war, he was imprisoned for is political activism. These lines from poem “The black messengers” is about the bewilderment and harshness of city life from his rural.
They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door
And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.
There are such hard blows in life. I don't know!
This poem “To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam” is quite a touching poem, nostalgia is something I avoid but when I read these it creates voids inside that takes lots of time to shed. Death as ‘going into hiding’ is a motif I strongly I identify with, long time back I used to think that way (there is a movie by Kurosawa…not able to recall the name, it has these wonderful images). I liked this poem and read many times in last few days. Everyday it seems to add new meaning. It feels good to know about poets I haven’t really heard about till now.
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama
caressed us: "But, sons..."
Now I go hide
as before, from all evening
lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry,
brother, from so much laughing.
Miguel, you went into hiding
one night in August, toward dawn,
but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead evenings
grew annoyed at not finding you. And now
a shadow falls on my soul.
Listen, brother, don't be late coming out. All right? Mama might worry.
What a lovely poem that one.
I wrote this few days back
When sun sets and we go back home
will we be able to answer the questions that wait for us
in the dark?
Questions furious of being orphaned
while we filled our cravings
stole, snatched and dealt
Questions that stab our conscience
accumulating lies and farce
that tie us in knots
force us on burning amber all night
and leave quietly in the morning.
And we live the days dreading the shadows
and another night 