DESDE Diario poético de una viajera

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

(from Manhattan)

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

Looked for a kitsch-sit

the victim-Allen’s phone

sounds “beat – beat – beat”.

“This is an express train”

calls

papers

coffee

lights

rats

souls

clouds

gloves

“This is an express train!”

ghettos

waves

iron gulls

maps

wars

radios

ads

“This is an express train!!”

14

4

2

9

15

N

U

> 

.

.

“This is an express train

Among darkness

(from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral)

Shh…

It’s peace,

between the flats,

between the sad darkness

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,

hope of the fog’s tears.

The quiet high pebble

into road-sea’s tempest,

a bronzed hug of wave

in a shore of the street,

a heavy wing’s shade,

old balm for tired feet,

small stony God’s kiss

stroke by civic clouds,

such firmly anchored as

Sainthood’s fingerprint.

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,

the flame of Mut,

how mash your mask?

Queen of deserted pain,

sarcophagi with heels and pearls,

why don’t you cry?

mummy,

why? 

If you allow

Your boliling wan howl

floods in a crypt

the void casket of your soul,

muddles your mind,

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

Then,

muffled mummy,

Then,

Muffin mom,

just

then

I’ll might love you.

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”.