Horizon

Cancun (from Women Island) Mx.

Caribbean Sea (from one of Cancun beaches)

Horizon

To cross the horizon grown old

And watch at the bottom of dreams

The fluttering star

You were so lovely

you could not speak

I moved away

But carry in my hand

That native sky

And its wasted sun

This afternoon

in a café

I have drunk

A liquor trembling

Like a red fish

And once again in the glass hidden

That filial dream

You were so lovely

you could not speak

Something was dying in your chest

Your eyes were green

but I was moving away

You were so lovely

I learnt how to sing.

Horizonte

Pasar el horizonte envejecido
Y mirar en el fondo de los sueños
La estrella que palpita


Eras tan hermosa
que no pudiste hablar
Y me alejé
Pero llevo en la mano
Aquel cielo nativo
Con un sol gastado


Esta tarde
en un café
he bebido
un licor tembloroso
Como un pescado rojo


Y otra vez en el vaso escondido
Ese sueño filial
Eras tan hermosa
que no pudiste hablar
En tu pecho algo agonizaba
Eran verdes tus ojos
pero yo me alejaba


Eras tan hermosa
que aprendí a cantar.

～Vicente Huidobro

music+image
Thanks for visiting, please be sure that I read each and every one of your kind comments, I appreciate them all and I'll respond when the inexorable time permits.
Tweet

Street Cross

Street offering to a death people.

Cross

Something is left

Over the warmest distances

On all the roads

there was blood from my feathers

As I tried to gather them

I saw that there were many

It is not Christ who went by

As slowly as the hours of the East

My cross did not burden my back

Nor does it fly above the roofs

THERE WERE RED SPECKS IN THE MEADOWS

My wingless cross was on my chest

And has never wished to close its eyes

A bird burns in the setting sun

The things we have forgotten

Gazing lifewards

I have seen my cigarette

smoking in the warmest distances.

From:

ARCTIC POEMS

VICENTE HUIDOBRO

Translation by Ian Barnett

Cruz

Algo se ha quedado

Sobre las más tibias lejanías

En todas las rutas

había sangre de mis plumas

Al querer recogerlas

he visto que eran muchas

No es el Cristo que ha pasado

Lento como las horas del Oriente

Mi cruz no cargó mis espaldas

Ni vuela sobre los techos

EN LA CAMPIÑA HABÍA PUNTOS ROJOS

Mi cruz sin alas iba en mi pecho

Y no ha querido nunca cerrar los ojos

Un pájaro se quema en el ocaso

Cuántas cosas hemos olvidado

Mirando hacia la vida

He visto mi cigarro

que humea en las más tibias lejanías.

music+image
New York City and Washington series continue in Sketches of Cities.  (At Least Once A Week) Gracias por su visita. / Thanks for visiting, please be sure that I read each and every one of your kind comments and I appreciate them all. Stay tune.