Viaja la luz entre mis dedos
sin detenerse
me obliga a tomar aliento y reposar
de este viaje tan largo
En esta ciudad inmensa que
crece todavía
entre la niebla
con la nieve o el sol
crece
y no se calla
Entre las olas de ruido
escucho tu voz
cercana y a ratos ya no tanto
y tengo miedo olvidarla
y olvidarte
No te puedo ver
aunque intento casi demencialmente
a diario
antes de dormir y cuando duermo
o despierto
Y la luz sigue viajando
entre mis dedos
promesa de aliviarme
y encontrarte.
2013/10/01
2013/03/31
Winter Insomina
By Raymond Carver
The mind can't sleep, can only live awake and
gorge, listening to the snow gather as
for some final assault.
It wishes Chekhov were here to minister
something- three drops of valerian,a glass
of rose water-anything, it wouldn't matter.
The mind would like to get out of here
onto the snow. It would like to run
with a pack of shaggy animals, all teeth,
under the moon, across the snow, leaving
no prints or spoor, nothing behind.
The mind is sick tonight.
The mind can't sleep, can only live awake and
gorge, listening to the snow gather as
for some final assault.
It wishes Chekhov were here to minister
something- three drops of valerian,a glass
of rose water-anything, it wouldn't matter.
The mind would like to get out of here
onto the snow. It would like to run
with a pack of shaggy animals, all teeth,
under the moon, across the snow, leaving
no prints or spoor, nothing behind.
The mind is sick tonight.
2012/11/15
The End and the Beginning by Wisława Szymborska
Translated By Joanna Trzeciak
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
Wislawa Szymborska, “The End and the Beginning” from Miracle Fair, translated by Joanna Trzeciak. Copyright © 2001 by Joanna Trzeciak. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Source: Miracle Fair: selected poems of Wis?awa Szymborska (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 2001)
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
Wislawa Szymborska, “The End and the Beginning” from Miracle Fair, translated by Joanna Trzeciak. Copyright © 2001 by Joanna Trzeciak. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Source: Miracle Fair: selected poems of Wis?awa Szymborska (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 2001)
2012/10/30
Luna de plata
Es una noche de luna llena
envolviendo mi cuerpo de ansiedad
y miedo a esta intriga nueva
de huracán
este viento de tormenta que trae lluvia y
tal vez piedras y barro
horas muertas
horas de mentira como si
este día no fuera día
y la gente esperando y sin esperar
sin saber qué es lo que viene o no
es una noche ácida
larga y a tientas
y no nos queda más que
mirarnos en la oscuridad
ver cómo nuestros cuerpos brillan
y nuestros rostros se hacen otros
ajenos a los de esta mañana
porque tienen más arrugas
de la duda
de las preguntas sin respuestas
porque no sabemos qué pasará en la madrugada
o en medio de este ahora
que es lo único que importa
envolviendo mi cuerpo de ansiedad
y miedo a esta intriga nueva
de huracán
este viento de tormenta que trae lluvia y
tal vez piedras y barro
horas muertas
horas de mentira como si
este día no fuera día
y la gente esperando y sin esperar
sin saber qué es lo que viene o no
es una noche ácida
larga y a tientas
y no nos queda más que
mirarnos en la oscuridad
ver cómo nuestros cuerpos brillan
y nuestros rostros se hacen otros
ajenos a los de esta mañana
porque tienen más arrugas
de la duda
de las preguntas sin respuestas
porque no sabemos qué pasará en la madrugada
o en medio de este ahora
que es lo único que importa
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