hornero
se escuchan ruidos
en el monte,
el silbido del viento
entre las espinas:
son los brujos
de nuevo,
otra noche
de uñas largas
pintadas de negro,
otra noche
de plumas en suspenso
y polvo en los ojos,
es la hora
de apoyarse en un árbol
y toser,
los búhos
vuelan
de rama en rama;
necesito
acurrucarme
en un hueco cualquiera,
y esperar
a que el mundo
salga de tu boca,
o cavar y cavar
hasta ver tu reflejo
en la tierra removida,
pero no estamos allí,
alguien vomita
sobre las baldosas
y se desploma
sobre un banco de hormigón,
los brazos colgando,
las piernas colgando,
algo pende,
el pasado o el tiempo,
supongo,
no sé de esas cosas,
recuerdo los símbolos
que vi en el monte
pero no sé qué significan:
un cuero sobre la hojarasca
y unas plumas esparcidas
aquí y allá:
siento que hay un muro
entre palabra y palabra,
esa es mi casa,
hecha de espacios vacíos,
a merced del viento
que se cuela entre las rendijas,
recuerdo
haber estado
en esa playa,
el cielo,
recuerdo el cielo
tan oscuro
y el mar amenazante,
por eso la arena
me enlazaba las piernas,
por algo
que no puedo recordar,
y sin embargo,
las verdades estaban allí,
ondulando,
no en la cresta,
ni en la rompiente,
ondulando,
y en el fondo
eran tus labios
los que decían las palabras,
y solo se veían
las paredes
pintarrajeadas
con formas
irreconocibles,
esa era mi casa,
la de las botellas rotas,
la de las palomas
rebuscando en la basura,
allí nos tendíamos,
en un cuero,
húmedos al sol,
y cantábamos
hasta que se nos partían
los huesos,
y eran los gritos
algo serio,
una forma
de expresar algo
diferente al dolor,
supongo,
debería tener miedo,
saber que esos ojos
que me observan
entre las ramas
apenas son algo
que se cierra
y se pierde
una y otra vez;
esa es mi casa:
parpadeando
en la oscuridad,
abierta en cada grieta,
la puerta arañada,
lejos de todo:
tal vez
haya una casa
entre cada palabra,
un lugar
para advertirles
que lo que sigue
es mentira,
que no estoy
en ningún lugar,
aunque no sea cierto,
aunque esté parado
con los brazos extendidos
y las palomas
posadas en la cabeza,
aunque de mi boca
salgan tus labios
y de tus labios
salga el barro,
y del barro
la espuma
y el río,
recuerdo
el olor de la zanja,
alguien se arrancaba
los cabellos,
y los chicos
pateaban la pelota
contra los autos,
en cada golpe,
algo se creaba,
supongo
que no tiene
importancia,
tirados al sol,
uno por uno,
fuimos cambiando,
yendo hacia otro tiempo,
son los brujos de nuevo,
vi las huellas
de sus botas
en el barro:
eran casas,
a su modo,
en ellas se podía
beber el agua
de la lluvia,
teníamos plumas,
pero no sabíamos
parpadear,
no sabíamos,
que el que estaba
recostado
en el banco de hormigón
ya no iba a despertarse,
que barríamos
las botellas rotas,
como si fueran
nuestros huesos,
como si pudiéramos
vernos reflejados
en el silbido del viento,
en el monte,
o en cualquier otro lado,
supongo
que escondíamos
los restos
entre palabra y palabra,
allí construímos
nuestra casa
para que nadie la vea,
para tratar de detener algo
que no puede detenerse,
supongo
[ENG - Translated with Deepl. The translation of poetry is very complex, therefore, in this case, it is not intended to have literary value, but only to serve as an orientation for reading.]
hornero
noises can be heard
in the bush,
the whistling of the wind
among the thorns:
it is the sorcerers
again,
another night
with long fingernails
painted black,
another night
of feathers in suspense
and dust in the eyes,
it's time
to lean against a tree
and cough,
the owls
fly
from branch to branch;
I need
to curl up
in a random hollow
and wait
for the world
to come out of your mouth,
or dig and dig
until you see your reflection
in the disturbed earth,
but we're not there,
someone vomits
on the tiles
and collapses
on a concrete bench,
arms dangling,
legs dangling,
something hangs,
the past or time,
I guess,
I don't know about those things,
I remember the symbols
I saw in the bush
but I don't know what they mean:
a leather on the leaf litter
and some feathers scattered
here and there:
I feel there is a wall
between word and word,
that is my house,
made of empty spaces,
at the mercy of the wind
that sneaks through the cracks,
I remember
having been
on that beach,
the sky,
I remember the sky
so dark
and the threatening sea,
that's why the sand
was tangling my legs,
because of something
I can't remember,
and yet,
the truths were there,
rippling,
not on the crest,
not on the breaker,
rippling,
and at the bottom
it was your lips
that spoke the words,
and the only thing
that was visible
were the walls
painted
with unrecognizable
shapes,
that was my house,
the one with the broken bottles,
the one with the pigeons
rummaging through the garbage,
that's where we stretched out,
on a leather,
wet in the sun,
and we sang
until our bones
cracked,
and the screams were
something serious,
a way
of expressing something
other than pain,
I guess,
I should be afraid,
to know that those eyes
that watch me
between the branches
are just something
that closes
and gets lost
again and again;
that's my home:
flickering
in the darkness,
open in every crack,
the scratched door,
far from everything:
maybe
there is a house
between each word,
a place
to warn you
that what follows
is a lie,
that I am not
nowhere,
even if it is not true,
even if I'm standing
with my arms outstretched
and the pigeons
perched on my head,
though from my mouth
your lips come out
and from your lips
the mud comes out,
and from the mud
the foam
and the river,
I remember
the smell of the ditch,
someone was tearing out
the hair,
and the kids
were kicking the ball
against the cars,
with every hit,
something was created,
I guess
that it is of no
importance,
lying in the sun,
one by one,
we were changing,
going to another time,
are the witches again,
I saw the footprints
of their boots
in the mud:
they were houses,
in their own way,
in them you could
drink the rain water,
we had feathers,
but we didn't know
how to blink,
we didn't know,
that the one who was
lying
on the concrete bench
was not going to wake up anymore,
that we were sweeping up
the broken bottles,
as if they were
our bones,
as if we could
see ourselves reflected
in the whistling wind,
in the bush,
or anywhere else,
I guess
that we were hiding
the remains
between word and word,
there we built
our house
so that no one would see it,
to try to stop something
that cannot be stopped,
I guess
La fotografía es de Fernando da Rosa Morena Fedaro en Commons, licencia CC BY-SA.
The photograph is by Fernando da Rosa Morena Fedaro on Commons, CC BY-SA license.