en una estancia
de mi pueblo,
dicen,
hay huesos
humanos;
no están
enterrados,
ni siquiera
apilados
a la intemperie
como si fueran
quijadas de vaca;
son huesos
clavados
a la tierra,
erguidos
al viento
como árboles;
y de esos huesos
salen ramas y hojas,
yemas y brotes,
y allí crecen
los frutos
deliciosos
de la muerte,
eso dicen
cuentan
que el cielo
de mi pueblo
tiene muchos
colores,
pero yo
soy incapaz
de verlos;
para mí,
el cielo
siempre está
incendiándose
hay una señora
en mi pueblo
que apenas
puede caminar:
está tan
encorvada
que no puede ver
otra cosa
que su propia
blusa a rayas;
usa como bastón
un largo hueso:
es de la pata
de un caballo,
me dijo;
hace mucho tiempo,
antes de que
yo naciera,
había caballos
gigantes;
después vino
la gran seca
y se murieron
de sed,
aplastados
unos sobre otros
en el cauce seco
de los ríos;
me hablaba a mí,
pero se miraba
la blusa a rayas;
a pesar de eso,
la señora
corta el pasto
de la vereda
de su casa
y yo no
todos los perros
de mi pueblo
son flacos,
famélicos,
los huesos frágiles,
cubiertos apenas
por el pelaje corto;
dicen que antes
había perros
robustos
a montones,
chumbándoles
a las bicicletas,
olfateando
los postes de luz;
poco a poco,
dicen,
se transformaron
en pájaros gigantes
que hoy matan vacas
y caballos
con sus picos
perrunos,
la dentellada
certera
en el cuello,
los colmillos
babeantes
en descenso;
eso dicen
pero yo creo
que no es cierto;
los perros
de mi pueblo
aprendieron
de algún modo
que no deben
comer
en mi pueblo
hay palancas:
viejos pedazos
de metal
oxidados,
enterrados
aquí y allá:
nadie sabe
por qué están ahí
y nadie se anima
a desenterrarlos;
hay muchas teorías,
pero yo pienso
que mueven algo
en lo profundo
del mundo,
que alguien
las ocultó
aquí
porque sabía
que en mi pueblo
se calla
el viejo
cuenta
que vio
los huesos:
me di
el julepe
de mi vida,
me dijo,
volvía
de cazar
perdices,
medio
al atardecer,
cuando
me encontré,
de repente,
con el monte
de huesos,
el viento
susurraba
entre los árboles
cosas irrepetibles
que voy a llevarme
a la tumba,
cosas
que podrían
abrir la tierra,
quebrarte
los ojos,
hacer que tu lengua
las repitiera
una y otra vez
hasta ahogarte,
cosas
que no hay que decir,
hacía frío,
me dijo,
eso fue
hace mucho
tiempo
el único bar
de mi pueblo
no se puede ver
desde la calle:
está dentro
de una casa;
no se puede
nombrar
(ni siquiera
tiene nombre);
en ese bar,
dicen,
se juntan
los que nacieron
en el pueblo
a tomar
una bebida
alcohólica
secreta:
una bebida,
entiendo,
que tampoco
tiene nombre;
mucha gente
no ha salido
nunca
de ese bar:
tal vez hayan
muerto
en alguna pelea
a cuchillo,
o quizás
simplemente
hayan tomado
demasiado;
otros dicen
que siguen allí
agarrados
a la botella
como fantasmas;
la dueña
del bar
de mi pueblo
es la directora
de la escuela
cuando
mi vecino
tuvo el accidente
fui a visitarlo
al hospital:
había perdido
el ojo derecho;
le pidió
a la enfermera
que nos dejara
solos:
se quito la venda
y me susurró
que mirara
dentro
de su ojo
vacío;
me negué
con un gesto
involuntario
de repugnancia;
quise retroceder
pero me tomó
del brazo
con fuerza:
mirá, me dijo;
abrí los ojos, me dijo;
y en lo que dura
un parpadeo
creí ver
dentro
de su fosa vacía
una palanca
oxidada;
me soltó el brazo
para pegarse
la venda
de nuevo;
sonreía:
murió
al día siguiente
en mi pueblo
no hay cementerio:
solo los chanchos
gruñendo
al atardecer
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.
in a farm
in my town,
people say,
there are
human bones;
they are
not buried,
not even
piled up
outside
as if they were
cow jawbones;
they are bones
nailed to the earth,
standing upright
in the wind
like trees;
and from those bones
come out branches and leaves,
buds and shoots,
and there grow
the delicious fruits
of death,
so they say
people say
that the sky
in my village
has many
colors,
but I am
unable
to see them;
for me,
the sky
is always
on fire
there is a old lady
in my village
who can hardly
walk:
she is
so bent over
that she can't see
anything
but her own
striped blouse;
she uses
a long bone
as a cane:
it's from
a horse's leg,
she told me;
a long time ago,
before I was born,
there were
giant horses;
then came
the great drought
and they died
of thirst,
crushed
one on top of the other
in the dry riverbeds;
she was talking to me,
but she was looking
at her striped blouse;
despite this,
the old lady
mows the grass
on the sidewalk
of her house
and I do not
all the dogs
in my village
are skinny,
starving,
their bones fragile,
barely covered
by short fur;
people say
there used to be
sturdy dogs
in abundance,
barking at bicycles,
sniffing the lamp posts;
little by little,
they say,
they transformed
into giant birds,
which today kill cows
and horses
with their doggy beaks,
the sharp teeth
on their necks,
the drooling fangs
descending;
so they say,
but I don't think
it's true;
the dogs
of my village
have somehow
learned
that they must
not eat
in my town
there are levers:
old rusty pieces
of metal,
buried
here and there:
nobody knows
why they are there
and nobody dares
to dig them up;
there are many theories,
but I think
that they move
something deep
in the world,
that someone
hid them
here
because he knew
that in my town
people keep silent
the old man
tells
that he saw
the bones:
I got
the fright
of my life,
he told me,
I was coming back
from hunting
partridges,
around sunset,
when I
suddenly
came across
the forest
of bones,
the wind
whispered
among the trees
unrepeatable things
that I'm going to take
to my grave,
things that could
open the ground,
break
your eyes,
make your tongue
repeat them
over and over again
until you choke,
things
that must not be said,
it was cold,
he told me,
that was
a long time ago
the only bar
in my village
cannot be seen
from the street:
it is inside
a house;
it cannot
be name it
(it doesn't even
have a name);
in that bar,
people say,
those
who were born
in the village
gather to drink
a secret
alcoholic
beverage:
a beverage,
I understand,
that also
has no name;
many people
have never left
that bar:
perhaps
they have died
in a knife fight,
or perhaps
they have
simply
had too much
to drink;
others say
they are still there
clinging
to the bottle
like ghosts;
the owner
of the bar
in my village
is the headmistress
of the school.
when
my neighbor
had the accident,
i went to visit him
in the hospital:
he had lost
his right eye;
he asked
the nurse
to leave us
alone:
he took off his bandage
and whispered to me
to look
into
his empty
eye;
I refused
with an involuntary
gesture
of repugnance;
I wanted to pull back
but he took me
by the arm
with force:
look, he told me;
open your eyes, he told me;
and in the blink
of an eye
I thought I saw
inside
his empty pit,
a rusty lever;
he let go of my arm
to stick
the bandage
back on;
he smiled:
he died
the next day
in my village
there is no cemetery:
only the pigs
grunting
at dusk
La imagen fue creada con el modelo de inteligencia artificial Stable Diffusion.
The image was created with the Stable Diffusion artificial intelligence model.
