Three poems - La morada fugitiva
English translation: Luis Rafael Gálvez
IT RAINS IN THE POEM
The scar in the horizon invades my eyes:
The shadow has been uttered
I appreciate the quarrel between verdure and death.
In this city they have condemned fire and earth,
Only water and wind, trasparent friends,
The hierarchy of the invisible.
Words become transparent
I see as I come out how silence opens up.
There is a language spoken only
By those who have just been born.
This day's exile has begun.
Dew visits me
and the mountain gives up its boundaries.
My hands are nomadic roots.
Is it I? Or is the body what is real?
The fragrance unfolds its crime
The rose will end up abolishing its thorns
But its danger will increase.
The road has been mutiladted...
Since when do I read the book of fire?
Now that time chases after me
I know the place where death goes green again
There is where my voice begins.
The Cry's Age
Who survives his childhood?
I believed in memory
Until I was outraged by the vigil.
Time, potter of cracks.
I came to speak in the middle of the tempest,
I arrived with my inheritance of shadows
Undecided between poem and cry
Between fire and blue...
Now I live exiled from the past
and the misfortune of dawn.
Is the work of the dead.
© Gonzalo Márquez Cristo