Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling

over Mexico City

but no one even noticed.

The air carried poison through

the streets and open windows.

You'd just finished eating and were watching

cartoons on TV.

I was reading in the bedroom next door

when I realized we were going to die.

Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself

to the kitchen and found you on the floor.

We hugged. You asked what was happening

and I didn't tell you we were on death's program

but instead that we were going on a journey,

one more, together, and that you shouldn't be afraid.

When it left, death didn't even

close our eyes.

What are we? you asked a week or year later,

ants, bees, wrong numbers

in the big rotten soup of chance?

We're human beings, my son, almost birds,

public heroes and secrets.

From The Romantic Dogs by Roberto Bolaño, translated by Laura Healy (Picador, £8.99). To order a copy for £7.19 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846 or go to theguardian.com/bookshop