馃搷 Saludos #hivers!
Mi afecto para toda la colmena!!!
Porque la poes铆a no tiene un camino. Porque llega y se va. Porque a veces se deja atrapar como una mariposa de alas feroces en una jaula de papel.
Porque la distancia no existe. Porque conectar dos puntos no siempre es tan simple, a no ser que un verso salte y se apodere de ti. Porque las se帽ales aunque no las notes siempre est谩n merodeando, ret谩ndonos.
Tal vez por eso. O tal vez no.
Por todas esas razones, y otras a las que no llega mi entendimiento, nace este poema dedicado a mi amigo Ian Rodr铆guez, alias
@restaurador, qui茅n adem谩s tuvo la gentileza de editar el texto.
驴Cu谩ntas hambres tiene un Poeta?
Ah铆 lo ves. Ah铆 va. Por una calle de Santa Clara. Con mil demonios saltando en su pecho.
(A Ian).
Un hombre sale de Auschwitz
arrastrando su bala de gas
por una calle desierta
como si fuera una bomba.
Lleva en su coraz贸n
el ruido de la muerte
y en la sangre
la derrota de una generaci贸n
que jug贸 a desgarrarse
porque entendi贸
que eso era la vida.
Un hombre de hombros ca铆dos,
derrotado por el tiempo,
va despacio
por esa calle de Dios
donde las almas
se niegan a estar.
Un hombre empuja
su bala de gas,
como si pidiera
una limosna a la muerte
y a Dios, un trozo de esperanza.
Camina exactamente
en el c铆rculo bestial
elegido por el sol
para sembrar un rel谩mpago.
Un hombre cabizbajo
arrastra su bala de gas,
como si fuera una bomba
y sonr铆e
bajo el cielo de Auschwitz
que se desploma
sobre su cabeza.
(Texto de mi Autor铆a, libre de IA
Imagen: Cortes铆a de
[ENG]
AN ALMS TO DEATH
馃搷 Greetings #hivers!
My love to the entire hive!!!
Because poetry has no path. Because it comes and goes. Because sometimes it lets itself be caught like a butterfly with fierce wings in a paper cage.
Because distance does not exist. Because connecting two points is not always so simple, unless a verse leaps out and takes hold of you. Because the signs, though you may not notice them, are always lurking, challenging us.
Perhaps for that reason. Or perhaps not.
For all those reasons, and others beyond my understanding, this poem is born, dedicated to my friend Ian Rodr铆guez, alias
How many hungers does a Poet have?
There you see him. There he goes. Down a street in Santa Clara. With a thousand demons jumping in his chest.
(A Ian).
A man leaves Auschwitz
dragging his gas canister
down a deserted street
as if it were a bomb.
He carries in his heart
the noise of death
and in his blood
the defeat of a generation
that played at tearing itself apart
because it believed
that was life.
A man with slumped shoulders,
defeated by time,
walks slowly
down that street of God
where souls
refuse to dwell.
A man pushes
his gas canister,
as if begging
for alms from death
and from God, a shred of hope.
He walks precisely
in the beastly circle
chosen by the sun
to sow a lightning bolt.
A man with his head bowed
drags his gas canister,
as if it were a bomb,
and smiles
under the sky of Auschwitz
that collapses
over his head.
Text of My Own Authorship, Free from AI
Image: Courtesy of
With translation by Monica AI.
