José Saramago

Noche larga e intermitente.
Herido por el misterio,
él mira como si una niñera oscura estuviera
arruinando un sueño por alcanzar.
Sus palabras se condensan en el vidrio
iluminadas por cierta candoluminiscencia arcaica.
Exhalando canciones fantasmales,
campanas frágiles cuentan historias
que resbalan como gotas
iluminadas por farolas refractadas
que niegan ante sus luces el velo
del paso del tiempo.
Su fortaleza de cristal y su refugio,
su prisión de verdades cubiertas de rocío,
sus grietas y sus empalmes reverberan
dentro de los oscuros interludios de la noche.
A veces, cuando llueve uno pide que escampe,
sobre todo cuando uno ve que está lloviendo bastante.
Y entonces, sólo el viento oirá nuestras palabras,
rumores de nuevos tiempos silenciados por destellos.
Muchos se pierden cuando el sol huye,
buscando bajo las sombras,
su propia incandescencia.

"We live observing shadows that move and we believe that this is reality.."

José Saramago

Long, intermittent night.
Wounded by mystery,
he watch, as if a dark nanny were
ruining a dream to reach.
His words condense on the glass
illuminated by a certain archaic candoluminescence.
Exhaling ghostly songs,
fragile bells tell stories
that slide like drops
illuminated by refracted lampposts
who deny before their lights the veil
of the passage of time.
His fortress of crystal and his refuge,
his prison of dew-covered truths,
his cracks and his joints reverberate
into the dark interludes of the night.
Sometimes, when it rains one asks to scale,
especially when you see it's raining a lot.
And then, only the wind will hear our words,
rumors of new times silenced by flashes.
Many are lost when the sun flees,
searching under the shadows,
for their own incandescence.

Written by Zeleira Cordero Hive account@zeleiracordero.

17/01/2019

Photo by Mohammed Amine El yassari on Unsplash

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