There are certain situations, certain writings, certain bodies, certain souls and certain mysteries that should not be described. It is this way this poem, it should not be described, only to feel and to imagine that it is what the hidden look see, to feel without knowing, to arrive to the horizon and to enjoy what your heart can appreciate, to feel and to vibrate. And however I attempted it, I tried to arrive to the silence, the hidden side of the moon, the infinite look of my muse Adriana.
Original photo edited by me.
Hay ciertas situaciones, ciertos escritos, ciertos cuerpos, ciertas almas y ciertos misterios que no deben describirse. Así es este poema, no debería ser descrito, sólo sentir e imaginar que es lo que la mirada oculta ve, sentir sin saber, llegar al horizonte y disfrutar lo que tu corazón pueda apreciar, sentir y vibrar. Y sin embargo lo intenté, intenté llegar hasta el silencio, el lado oculto de la luna, la mirada infinita de mi musa Adriana.
And it is here when the philosopher
Instead of being philosophized he become a poet
And it plows in the sea,
In a senseless intent
Of pulling up its serenity and its Peace.
To know what is observing the figure turned.
What is reflected in her look.
Hair and waves,
That; that is what has the silly philosopher,
master of the nottingness,
Technician of labyrinths,
Scientific of illusions,
Hunter of clouds,
Taster of coconut waters.
And it is so much what he see that he doesn't know how to describe,
It is so much what he perceives that his heart overflows
And then he begins to write madness and fantasies.
And it is that of unconcluded utopias
He is an expert without that his experience
Prepare him to be more reserved.
He falls in love with the back,
Of those eyes that you don't see,
Of the wind that it whispers
And he doesn't listen.
And yes, the philosopher is no longer philosopher,
Now he believes to be a poet
And he dares in wanting to touch your serpentine back.
Looking for to get your attention.
For what reason?
He doesn't know it.
Is only an impulse that replete him,
That possesses his senses.
But he doesn't make it...
At least not directly.
It respects too much the intimacy between her and her sea
(Yes, it is her sea, it is only own of her in that instant)
That keeps silent with the mouth
And it claims with the fingers.
I am philosopher and non a poet
But you are muse and so many things that I am not capable to decipher.
You are what you are,
You are like you are,
You are so much to admire and to appreciate.
You are for me the sea being observed.
January 12 2021
Y es aquí cuando el filósofo
En vez de filosofar se vuelve poeta
Y ara en el mar,
En un insensato intento
De arrancar su sosiego y su Paz.
Saber que está observando la figura de espaldas.
Qué se refleja en su mirada.
Cabellos y ondulaciones,
Eso; eso es lo que tiene el tonto filósofo,
Maestro de la nada,
Técnico de laberintos,
Científico de ilusiones,
Cazador de nubes,
Catador de aguas de coco.
Y es tanto lo que ve que no sabe describir,
Es tanto lo que percibe que su corazón se rebosa
Y entonces comienza a escribir locuras y fantasías.
Y es que de utopías inconclusas
Es un experto sin que su experiencia
Le prepare para ser más comedido.
Se enamora de la espalda,
De esos ojos que no ve,
Del viento que susurra
Y el no escucha.
Y sí, el filósofo ya no es filosofo,
Ahora cree ser poeta
Y osa en querer tocar tu espalda sinuosa.
Buscando llamar tu atención.
¿Para qué?
Él no lo sabe.
Solo es un impulso que le embarga,
Que posee sus sentidos.
Pero no lo hace...
Al menos no directamente.
Respeta demasiado la intimidad entre ella y su mar
(Si, es su mar, es solo suyo en ese instante)
Que guarda silencio con la boca
Y reclama con los dedos.
Soy filósofo y no poeta
Pero tú eres musa y tantas cosas que no se descifrar.
Eres lo que eres,
Eres como eres,
Eres tanto para admirar y apreciar.
Eres para mí el mar siendo observado.
12 de Enero de 2021