DESDE / FROM
Diario poético de una viajera
Autora: Ruth Sancho
POEMAS
Austria
Laughs of water
(Hellbrum- Saltzburg. Austria. 2004)
Prost!
And the chairs hiss laughs of water
“cos” the stones keep the trick,
How to live in a city where everything drips?
Where
the street are channels of fantasy’s steam,
Where a liquid cave sings invisible birds,
Where a magic power’s crown flies up and down,
Becoming princes in frogs, or frogs in Kings,
Where the tongue of the clown derides itself,
Where the crowd of the past lives on a stage
which opens and closes every day its gates.
Where the sky is an umbrella of buttons-stars,
where the paths shoot tears, drawing a magic arch.
Since
I left it, I can’t forget its sound,
so it means I’ve been possessed by its tide.
And
while I fall asleep thinking in this garden,
it gifts me a smile of stream and a gaze of pond,
Long Fountain’s fingers and waterfall’s words,
dreams of swan and Swarosvky’s skim,
heart of trefoil and soul of drop,
breast of Salt-z and pubic moss,
and its then when the landscape
makes me love.
Australia
Melbourne in winter
(from
Melbourne)
Under
the rain
walking
on a golden whale
wandering among
sweet
streets of lollipops with lines
he
wraps me up
in
his web of trams.
The
clock-moon of a church
winks
at me
with
each swift and wet minute.
The
damp pavement weeps green reflected steps on a small man’s light.
Under
the rain
he
protects me keeping six eyes on me at the corner of the scared metal
he
seduces me with poems and songs
and
makes me laugh.
Alleluia!
On
the peaceful park
he
pounces on my pure imagination with his potty Possum’s passion!
Under
the rain
we
love each other again
and
again
and
again
and
...
Why do you have to own everything nice?
(from St.Kilda.
Melbourne)
I’ve got used to walking
on St. Kilda beach in the morning.
I often find several
starfishes of different colours and sizes.
Amazing.
I didn’t know that there
are violet starfishes.
And some of them have
four limbs, and others, five.
They arrive at night,
I suppose
with the tide.
They stay quiet on the
sand, on the seashore’s line,
covered with transparent
water,
Pacific’s water,
a mirror of the sky.
Now I am trying to
identify
which ones arrived
before.
I guess I’m close to the
clue.
Yesterday I discovered a
huge jellyfish,
and its appearance was
the mystery of the day.
I wonder if one day,
who knows?,
I will see a Sea Winged
Dragon.
This morning you have
arrived with your boyfriend on one hand and chips from Mac Donalds on the other
one.
You have taken them.
All of them.
Tonight you will throw
them away in the airport
because your suitcase
weighs too much.
Viento rojo
(From Kings Canyon. Outback. Australia. Octubre 2006)
En la Ciudad Sagrada de los Hombre
Luritja,
el viento sopla en círculos concéntricos
y se aplaca en sus calles su cola enroquecida.
El Viento gira,
gira el Viento,
gira.
Horadando la piedra,
sedimento aborigen,
crea cuevas rupestres donde se alberga el mito.
El Viento gira,
el viento gira, gira.
Hormiguero de historias,
de misterios de miel
que sobreviven,
cual tesoro escondido,
camuflados sobre troncos milenarios en gotas de resina
o en libélulas rojas sobre un lienzo de polvo.
Y gira,
gira,
el viento gira,
gira.
Y es memoria remota
de algún viejo ritual
que en el tiempo se cuela,
mientras nos pinta el Sol
un cielo de acuarela.
Y gira,
y gira,
porque el viento gira.
Nothingness
(From the Indian-Pacific
Train. August. 2010)
As an echo,
The distance ripples.
The horizon evaporates
in void’s hisses.
A line of silence, a
train.
From the drizzle,
from a pallid land,
a nomad spectrum rises
as a cloud of nostalgia,
as a black-white eagle
of remembrance.
ETERNITY IS A PUDDLE.
Your walk-about is
blended with these tracks
and your voice is a warm yellow wind,
your words, the wattle’s
blossom.
We eat,
drink,
eat,
laugh,
eat
and make love.
The carriage is an
un-time’s cradle capsule,
A sand clock with no
hole
which through its glass
your heart’s blood dries
in stud dessert peas.
HISTORY IS A PEBBLE.
A train in an opposite
direction
passes away
carrying all thoughts,
Not even ghosts remind
in this place,
the mind.
WISDOM IS BLANKNESS.
And a heavy rain veils
the plain,
Drops of miles melt in
mud and blur dawn’s powder.
All lost in the dream,
You arrived without
coming,
Puri-Puri magic
Kadaicha man’s power.
REALITY IS ILLUSION.
The train starts flying
in both directions,
back and forth,
forth and back,
it bumps,
it blows,
Everything is upside
down:
It digs the superficial,
It carves the air,
It surrounds the
straight,
It fills up with emptiness.
It plunges into
un-constriction,
It expands within the
sunset,
It flashes in nought’s
darkness,
It dooms in beauty’s
billows,
and finally
It vanishes like dust.
NOTHINGNESS IS
EVERYTHING.
And a song
From the soil
Begins to dance:
NOTHINGNESS IS REAL,
========
NOTHINGNESS IS HISTORY,
==========
NOTHINGNESS, ETERNITY,
============
NOTHINGNESS IS WISDOM
============
Next Station:
== F== R == E == E == D == O == M ==
Canto a la ópera
(Desde
Sydney. Agosto. 2010)
¿La escuchas?
Notas centelleantes
sobre un pentagrama oceánico.
¿Puedes sentir sus
tonos,
ondulando los vértices
de vibrantes escamas?
¿Sus voces
escalando en cóncavo
sus cavidades líricas?
¿Sus crechendos,
viniéndose en convexo
la noche con sus pechos?
Sirena entre las rocas,
atraes al viajero
para hacerlo cautivo
de tu memoria.
Claves de sol marineras
alzan sus velas
blancas,
semicorcheas,
y en cada tres por cuatro,
se pasean redondas
las gentes por tu canto,
por tu llanto
de mujer anclada
al devenir del tiempo,
mitad hembra, mitad pez
condenada a la sal
y al firmamento.
¿Quién osó el enjaular
tu vuelo de gaviota?
¿Quién tus huesos cubrió
con astillas de luna?
¿Qué loco musicó
tus pensamientos?
Vientos orquestan
tu alma de partitura,
iluminan los astros
tu escenario,
de fingidos amores,
de trágica hermosura,
y el destino se ahoga
en un telón de espuma.
Sensualmente abanicas,
en plateados y nacar,
los naufragios del sol
entre tus nalgas,
y oleas con sopranos suspiros
tu atmósfera de vértigos
y giros,
viniéndose así el mar
en contrabajos,
preñándose el ocaso
de gemidos.
Prostituta divina,
burguesa en un burdel de cantineros.
Me adormezco en el
arrullo de tus labios,
en tu nana de coro me acurruco,
en el ensueño de tu voz
me voy hundiendo…
me voy hundiendo…
me voy hundiendo…
Mañana al despertar,
serás recuerdo.
El cor del drac sona
(Perth. Agosto 2010)
Tlin,
Tilín, tlin, tlon,
Tlin-tilin-tlon-tlin..
tilon... tlin...
El cor del drac sona,
un diamant amb pàlpits de
campana,
pulsacions per a l’himne de
l’estima.
Miralls piramidals
voltejen el llac
als peus d’un drac
que protegeix la ciutat
del pas del temps.
“No minute gone can ever
been again,
take heed and sec ye
nothing do in vain”
Els pensaments són
gratacells
i el cor del drac sona,
per damunt del tràfic i el
soroll,
més alt que els surtidors
futuristes,
més enllà de l’altra part
del vent,
més fort que la terra
més afilat i agut que la
distància
Tlin, tilin, tlin, tlon,
tlin,...
El cor del drac sona
engalonat amb flors i
joies,
emborraxant-se de cervessa
i alegria,
dolc com pastissos
medievals,
violent com un llamp.
El cor del drac sona,
I vol sortir d’aquesta
cova,
d’aquesta cova de
contradiccions,
d’aquesta cova d’odi
enamorat,
El cor del drac sona,
tan dintre meu,
tan dintre teu.
A sobre de les ales del
drac
el cristall màgic i secret,
un diamant
amb ungles de bruixa.
El drac protegeix el cor de
la ciutat,
campanes que toquen l’himne
de l’estima,
campanes de ferro
amb una espasa màgica,
San Jordi,
Cascabells,
El pas del temps,
regina d’un batalló de
cristall,
cisne
envoltat per un llac
d’aborigens reflecs,
de teseles de sol i de la
lluna,
d’aigua i caretes
surtidors de l’espai,
i a l’esquerra palmeres
i miralls piramidals,
pensaments de gratacel,
esteles de tessel·les,
vaixells,
“No minute gone can ever
been again,
take heed and sec ye
nothing do in vain”
Un poblat de fantasia
amb tabernes i pots florals
cases de fusta i
pastiseries
joieries i portics de pedra
i un gat que observa
amb ulls fixes
d’esculptura.
........
Gulliver surfs into Alice’s Virgin Bay.
(At the Royal Botanic Gardens. Melbourne)
From: yahoo@yahoo.net
To: Houyhnhnms
Subject: ...but I travelled
again…
E-mail:
It was a joy to us and not a
penance.
I whisper:
Drink me
Eat me
Open your mouth and close your
eyes.
Afterwards you will explore my
fresh innocent fjord
And you’ll find yourself
snorkelling and surfing in my Virgin Bay,
But first...
You are going to strike with
your smily cat’s tongue
The syrup- slime trail of my
wet finger-snail
which slices straight down
from my spiral rabbit hole,
And then, you will purr
And then, I will moan.
Take my picture, honey.
And you taste my pussy butter
with an English cup of tea
while your Victorian gloves,
which you never take off,
spend our time together
enjoying yourself in me
on my non-birthday week.
I kiss a Caterpillar
You smoke my childish love.
Suck me stronger, baby.
“Milmilng Kang, Dilebang,
Billabong, Lony’tjung”
I love to feel your white
fire-works exploding in my lips
This hot snow of your
fingertips skating on my fairy tits.
Keep going on, going on.
I’m creating as we go along.
Your passion asks for
permission to cross my Palace,
And I’m already in flames,
That’s why I pray in front of
your knees
And I receive your rain.
You are so bitchy, darling.
Push me now.
...but suddenly…
a deep bitter drop drips down
from my milky teeth,
and draws, on the fitted
carpet, the new island where we’re called to live.
Excited,
I look for my free lube,
which was inside the kit of my
detailed hunk vibe
to capture every vein, bulge
and crease
of a real erect cock.
Glumdalclitch, stop it,
please!
Glumdalclitch, teach me more.
-Get in your doggy style!-
So, after a minute, you begin
to weep
with pleasure,
You move your bum in circles
at the same rhythm of it,
My seaweed-hair swims on your
smelly back
While I’m biting your neck,
till your human entrails bleed.
Then,
I lay
Quietly,
My inexperienced belly is
trembling with quick and small contractions,
And my breath is faltering in
short sighs and slow flutters
You fasten my hips,
firmly.
Then,
my legs themselves unfold the
sheet of my pure doll’s cradle
And I’m inviting you to spy
behinds the rule.
Your huge sword begins to
fight
with my pinkish jellyfish,
I shout
I cry
“Gulidjan, Wembawemba, Daung
wurrung, Mardidjali”
My body writhes inside.
Shhh,
my love,
Shhhh
My Dreaming is leaving.
“Maap, Jodojoda, Jabulajabula,
Buding, Jardwadjali”
I’m coming,
love,
I’m coming…
The floor is full of blood.
“Ngurai-illam wurrung,
Dadidadi, Boon wurrung”
I’m hurted in my roots.
Then
(Pain)
(Silence)
(Time)
Kangaroo
Koala
Wombat
Boomerang
Dingo Yabby
China
Cinc elements xinesos
(des del Palau d’Estiu. Beijing. China. Marc del 2011)
(Terra)
Al fons d’un llac de plata
envoltat per espirits de pedra
el pont es caligrafia en una llinea sutil
que equilibra les forces
de dos illes petites
per flotar en el refleix de la quietut.
(Fusta)
Penjen els plors dels arbres,
els arrels de muntanyes gegants
i el xius-xius dels pardals
son campanes que dancen.
Ven lluny una cometa
es mante en el seu vol
i el temple es fortaletza
del seu aterrizatge.
(Aigua)
Continua el viatge
d’un ona espandint-se
des de un nucli brillant
a un movement etern.
(Foc)
I el llac queda en silenci
com un somni antic vell
metres tança els seus ulls
una flama que es drac
adormint-se en el so
d’un ding-dong en vermell
‘ding-dong-ding’
‘dong-ding’
‘ding’
‘ding’ ‘ding’
‘dooooonnnngggg’…
(Metal)
Colombia
Amaneces
(Parque
Tayrona. Colombia. 2008)
Amanece el Tayrona bajo
tu piel.
En cada uno de tus besos de mango.
En el hormigueo de tus yemas
recorriendo las sutiles sendas del placer
transportando los verdes suspiros de tu frescura.
Amanece en tus ojos,
donde se ocultan las luciérnagas nocturnas;
En la corriente interna de tu mirar
que me arrastra,
con el oleaje de tu parpadeo
a lo más profundo de un mar de gozo.
Amanece en tu pubis,
se despliegan los pétalos de mi flor,
de este, mi bajo vientre,
con el revoloteo alado de un colibrí.
Me caracoleas en tu
respiración de brisa.
Me arrullas en la aurora de tu jadeo.
Me meces el deseo
en la húmeda hamaca de tu sonrisa.
Amaneces en vuelo,
en la emigración constante
de tu lengua a mis pechos,
con el vaivén de tus manos de palma
en mi cintura,
y se enreda la noche
en las largas lianas de tus cabellos.
Amaneces en río,
en la leche de coco endulzada
de la ciénaga de tu ombligo,
donde bebo a sorbitos de tu ternura
donde muere el arrollo de tus pasiones.
Amaneces en agua, en
aves, flores,
en viento, orilla, sal
en los insectos,
en huellas de tortuga sobre la arena,
en árbol, tronco, en rama, en hoja, en tierra.
Y así en tu resplandor
amanecido
despiertas a mi alma en su natura
de mi ser iluminas su sentido,
y en tu luz me detengo
en tu brillo reposo,
y muy adentro en ti
me voy
y anido.
INDIA
Falta de todo
(desde Varanasi.
India. 2014)
Vuelan las cometas de papel
desde lo alto de las azoteas,
como versos románticos
en el atardecer de Varanasi.
Suenan gritos de algarabía
de niños entusiasmados por el juego,
y una cítara a lo lejos
llora una pieza delicada
mientras pequeños monos
trepan por las paredes
de antigua casas
descascarilladas.
El blanco,
azul,
rosa,
el rojo de un ladrillo ya a la vista,
reflejan la luz adormilada
que en su caida,
con una suave brisa,
apacigua al espiritu
y todo calla.
Todo es calma
en la ciudad sagrada
donde hay falta de todo
menos de vida.
Donde mil golondrinas y palomas
acompañan cometas
entre el humo y el polvo,
difuminan el brillo
en naranja-amarillo
de un sol que es de postal
con sus rayos de hilo
de dorado sedal.
Suena una flauta,
en el atardecer de la hermosura,
recorriendo sus notas
callejuelas y esquinas
repletas de basura
y fantasia.
Atardece despacio,
se dibuja el ocaso
en una imagen nitida,
un sueño del ayer
un cuento de India,
donde hay falta de todo
menos de vida.
Y se inician los cantos,
la llamadá de Alá,
resonando los ecos
de la divinidad.
El Ganges se decora
de flores y de fuego
y danzan las campanas
con los cantos de Shiva.
Atardece en la ciudad sagrada,
belleza entre basura,
olor a incienso,
anestesia de orines,
y el sueño invade el rio
con su estampa vahída
donde hay falta de todo
menos de vida.
Nueva York
Light under the door
(from
Brooklyn)
At
night when I arrive at home,
I
look for light under the door,
fellow-light
on us nasty floor.
I
look for the fresh knowledge,
my
new tongue, new ears, new legs,
my
new brain, new skin, new veins
and
new mate air to can breathe,
new
oxygen for my new lungs.
I
look for history under your door.
For
your roots, for your words,
and
your accent so strange for…
for
my foreign accent so strong!
I
look for a magic add of sounds,
and
that music crawling from a mysterious box,
a
box with windows through I’ve never seen,
with
windows as opaque as your green eyes’ screens.
I
look for this new discovered star,
the
blonde curled star that you mean,
the
planet you are.
But
I know you are not going to open,
and
you are not going to speak, as always, to me,
and
you will prefer to spend your life with any rubbish on your TV.
But
I stay looking at this thin light fizzing from your room,
pricking
my pupils, hypnotizing my valor, flashing my hand.
And
tonight, as every night, I won’t be able to knock.
And
tonight, as every night, the light will disappear
moping
a future friendly knot.
Express subway
In
the year of the monkey
after
we did some hanky panky
Kangaroo
man took the train
With
his zebra-kid inside his crib.
“Stand
clear of the closing door”
While
a woody beaber-woman
sounds
“beat – beat – beat”.
“This
is an express train”
“This
is an express train!”
“This
is an express train!!”
“This
is an express train
Among darkness
(from Saint
Patrick’s Cathedral)
an
angel’s yawn and sleepy bells,
crystalized
dream in stained glasses,
wet
sand’s spires, rose window’ eyes.
Black
cyclamens and young poppies,
Garden’s
voices with feather’s faces
freeing
through delicate fragrances,
framing
with the virgin’ promises,
fervor’s
prayers of Lord’s crowd,
Lady
Guadalupe’s blessings,
silence
from organ’s pipes,
in
a shore of the street,
It’s
peace in the town’s east,
it’s
peace of melody, like a gift,
like
miracle from heaven to earth.
My mummy mommy
(from Metropolitan
Museum)
My
mummy mommy doesn’t know she is not alive.
She
still lais on her lapis-lazuli lapse
Lapping
luxury up from my dead daddy’s lips.
Every morning, my made up sphinx
lies
herself with hieroglyphics laughs,
sarcophagi
with heels and pearls,
the
void casket of your soul,
much
more muddy than mad,
makes
to fall down the pyramid of this family,
flows
out your puppet’s blood
push
you move out of your lethargy,
murder
your lonely heart’s leprosy
Valentine’s
night
Turning,
turning, turning…
Blue
kisses of light princess are dancing on the wall,
Will
you be my Valentine?
Round,
round, round…
Ripples
of iris of glitter’s hula-hoop,
look
for, look for, look at..
A
sparkling hat of love and a wedding with moustache
Get
me! kiss me! touch!
Nine
hundred of rose petals are carpeting the toilet,
so
nasty, so dirty, so let
that
a spicy widow waitress begins to shake her balloons,
red
hearts, red wine, red moons.
So
love, so tender, so faith
in
this crazy gold night of Valentine.
Say
to me “I love you”,
say
it please.
And
even I’ll never see you again
And
even I know that is a lie
I’ll
wrap you between my arrow-arms
Because
I need to feel some one is mine.
So
happiness, so cool, so drugs…
help
me, save me, touch!
Untitled
(From everywhere in NY at any time)
Once
upon a time
from the smallest bed-sit in the biggest city
Through the nights without age
on the Eternity´s blade
I listened:
Pile
up!
Sharp cans, sharp nails, sharp bits of plates,
Pile up!
Sharp plastic’s wine, sharp bloody spine of rotten lamb,
Keep well
the sharp mock-orange of this mole,
my sharp sizzle spikenard kiss of death.
Keep well
this sharp sneer’s snip.
Tapeworms
with silk ties run around the room,
Tapeworms with credit cards slice my neck.
Look
out!
Into a waltz of bags, newspapers’ dust,
forgotten clippings and unresolved crosswords:
my white labyrinth’s life.
Look
out!
Tapeworms with human laws
scratch my trash’s scar,
tapeworms with fountain-pens stab my brain,
Thus was when:
I
am the Stump of my aluminosic Temple.
I am the Vomit of my Bulimic Queens.
I am the Placenta of my high class aborts,
I am the Epilogue of the Next Empire.
Christmas Heaven
(from New York´s cemetery)
Welcome
to thee party
of
our cemetery!
To
cross the doors
pay
three ivory bones
one
duck,
a
small angel,
a
bear,
a
flag,
put
some food in a bag.
With
your invitation
from
thee Green-Wood Specter
turn
left on thee “Boss”,
take
care of thy money
or
sure should be lost.
After,
take a break,
To
read the Tribune,
perhaps
you can find it
inside
Horace’s urne.
While
“Jeremiah” sounds
mixed
with black moans’ cat,
go
straight to thee “Morse”,
don’t
forget thee password
was
“What hath God wrought”.
With
an electrical paintbrush,
you
will find on a skull
Nueva Zelanda
Planeta en su lecho de muerte
(Roturoa. Nueva
Zelanda. 2005)
La Tierra gorgorea el ardor de sus
entrañas,
burbujea saliva,
balbucea con gases,
y ahuma los suspiros de empañados fantasmas
volviéndolos visibles en un blanco aquelarre.
Con herpes
de un naranja putrefacto,
enferma el fango de su pesadilla
que apesta,
y escupe bilis,
y vomita sus heces en forma de diarrea.
Costras cóncavas cicatrizan su
garganta,
llagada ya
por ajados esputos,
y en su delirio
se retuerce en los estertores de la muerte,
se empapa tibia de su propia orina,
a fervientes dentelladas se desgarra
y en crujiente grito
se resquebraja.
Looking for the sublime
(From Fiordland & Otago
Peninsula.
New Zealand. May 2010)
With white howls of winter
witches
Riding clouds,
Gossiping frost,
Dressing in silver night’s
fiords,
Laughing high pitch of crystal
slivers,
Devouring mountains,
Swallowing swamps,
Gurgling long rivers,
Licking Lake sobs,
It floods inside of me.
With an early morning snow
Up on the Alps Peaks,
Just at the top,
Narrows the wet paths,
Alienates my lofty flakes
Frightened by the altitude
Of an enchanting climb;
With the vertigo of its cliffs
Winding up my waving flings,
It overwhelms my sighs.
With green trunks and
turquoise streams,
All splendour over the Rainbow
Reach,
Among hanging lichens
curtains,
On a waterfall moss mattress,
With a bushy bog as pillow
And a spider web sheet fellow,
It warms me up into its fresh
breathe.
With its Robins’ and Fantails’
flirting,
With sand flies and honey bees
Buzzing my reason rejections,
It comes deeply into my
inlets,
Invents private ecosystems
Where we feed each other
needs,
From where we fall into our
abyss
And let ourselves flow and
feel.
Once, I came looking for it
But
was he who found me, indeed.
Hunter
We are warriors,
the force of roots
digging the core of our
existence,
the strength of bones
bumping history,
the thunder
a cry from our throats.
We are warriors,
our teeth
hoes excavating our skin:
the soil.
the cliffs
our courage,
the moon
our sword.
We are warriors,
We are warriors,
...
waiting.
As it is
(from
Abel Tasman)
Quiet,
as it is,
anything expects nothing.
Tide goes down
Sun flirters among golden leaves
Breeze breaths
Sea swings its shore´s lullaby
Sand stays wet or dry
Quiet
Quiet
As it is
Seals rest on rocks
Rocks go on with its erosion
Fern´s silver branch falls down on its decay
Quiet
As it is
Tide goes up
Moon shines
Tide goes down
Clouds cry foolishly
Tide goes up and down
Up and down
Up and down
Quiet
Quiet
As it is
Everything is simple
Everything is easy
Everything is perfect
As it is.
Singapur
In a golden
melting pot
(from Singapore. August. 2010)
‘Congratulations’,
‘Welcome’ in carnations,
‘Make yourself a millionaire’.
This’ your paradise of luxury,
your capital’s giant,
your ’Prospero’s island
plus a very strong smell.
Cut, Cut, Cut,
take your knife,
from the market to the trade.
Bean curds, bean sprouts,
laksa, chendol,
Kampong, crabs and boneless lambs,
Choose the ingredients,
Be more serious,
Create your product,
Sell your dish,
‘Little sharks’: six dollars each.
Splash, splash, splash,
fill your bucket,
clean your hands.
Temple of monkeys, lions and
tigers,
sacred elephants and mice,
at night the investment safari
hunts for partners to get rich,
reach your luck
or pay the risk.
Rock, rock, rock,
this melting pot,
Heat, heat, heat,
it’s private meat.
Moon cake ‘s reflections
on reality’s fiction,
finances’ massive aluminium bulevard,
golden beans pips,
coins fountains award,
Business Feria plenty of tricks,
serve your portion,
get you a drink
in an environment that sticks.
Cheers, Cheers, Cheers,
open now a new Chateau,
Hi-hi-hi…
Sell last bottle and get more!
Italia
David
(Desde
Florencia. Italia. Dic.2007)
Desde la Torre
del Palazzo Vechio
un viento Botticelli
laureaba la cúpula
de nuestro asombro.
Le había amado así,
tan incompleto.
Aquel rostro sin hombre,
aquel torso tan tosco
sin faz,
aquel cuerpo sin cuerpo,
reciamente encerrado
en la cantera
de nuestras imperfecciones.
Mas aquella mañana de
sfumato,
una divina esencia,
un Angélico don,
disipo nuestras dudas metamórficas
irguiendo con su presencia
el símbolo de nuestra libertad.
Y así,
nos desprendimos
del peso de tantas frustraciones,
frisamos
las conjeturas de la incredulidad,
y comprendimos
que el pulso de la eternidad
palpitaba en nuestras manos.
Indonesia
A la voreta de
la mar
(Des de Padangbai. Bali. Nov 2010)
A la voreta de la mar
els xiquets menjen noodles d’un bol
asseguts dintre de l’aigua,
i es columpien amb les cordes que amarren
les barques dels peixeters.
I a la voreta de la mar,
el temps no requereix de rellotge per existir,
l’existencia no demana cap esforç,
l’esforç es recompensat amb un bon sopar,
i el sopar d’avui ve directament de la mar.
A la voreta de la mar
els xiquets juguen,
que es el que s’ha de fer
a la voreta de la mar.
Tailandia
Childish poem
(from Baan KingKaew Orphanage. Chiang Mai)
There is a place in this world
where forty pairs of tiny shoes ask for Mum.
It´s my big, big home
with a secondhand toys zoo
where a train without rails
always sells out its tickets.
We play in it
before going to sleep.
In this Peter Pan´s dream
its small habitants
hug so strongly
climb the ego so high
grease our love chain-work
that sometimes move
the wheels of these walls.
On a panel with hope pins
volunteer Tinkarbells
hang pictures of my faraway friends
sending me their happiness stamps.
I look for mine
but it might not be developed.
I would be silkworm for a family cocoon,
rice-fields for your rain-season,
mouse for your elephant troubles,
lylipad for your tears,
bamboo in your rafting days.
I would be dragon to burn your parenthood fears,
Songkran water to splash your morning,
tuk-tuk to drive your final decision,
incense to sweeten your mood,
white wool ball to dye me with your soul.
This time will arrive
when my metamorphosis sign
a letter with wings,
a photo with new frame
and my surname will subtitle
with another language,
from the other side,
the most
beautiful
“End”.
