tan pronto como (II)
¿volverán las calandrias a comerse nuestros higos?
preguntó sobre las ramas de la higuera,
acaso hubo entre ellas un comienzo y un final,
un pequeño brote mudo, encerrado como un gato,
y nosotros, recostados, el cielo como un delta a punto de hundirse
tan frágiles éramos, qué podríamos haber hecho entonces,
yo cavé un pozo y fui digno, dijo,
pero no era cierto, quién podría haber sido digno
si solo jugábamos a enredarnos a tientas entre las raíces,
a ser el óxido en el casco de un barco irremediable,
un peso inextinguible en el aire viciado de polvo,
y qué eran nuestras palabras sino metáforas del silencio,
cómo podríamos haber sido dignos, les dije, cómo,
estaba atardeciendo y ya no había rostros,
habíamos llevado el agua como una ofrenda, quizás la última,
nuestras manos serán cuencos, pensamos,
y ya no había rostros, solo el fuego, lentísimo,
cómo podría ser tan real y tan calmo,
y qué importaba si el cielo era gris o rojo,
si se distinguía o no de la tierra,
qué importaba si en vez de palabras salía hollín de tu boca,
yo cavé un pozo, y grité desde abajo,
y las palabras me sepultaron, y qué importaba,
si entonces las sonrisas de hollín eran las más bellas,
si nuestras manos eran cuencos y las cenizas caían a chorros,
yo cavé un pozo y no fui digno,
y quién podría haber sido digno entonces,
si las palabras se escurrían entre los dedos
[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.]
as soon as (II)
Will the chalk-browed mockingbirds come back to eat our figs?
he asked over the branches of the fig tree,
perhaps there was a beginning and an end among them,
a small mute bud, enclosed like a cat,
and we, lying down, the sky like a delta on the verge of sinking
so fragile we were, what could we have done then,
I dug a well and was worthy, he said,
but it wasn't true, who could have been worthy
if we only played at groping our way through the roots,
to be the rust on the hull of a hopeless ship,
an inextinguishable weight in the dust-streaked air,
and what were our words but metaphors for silence,
how we could have been worthy, I told them, how,
it was getting dark and there were no more faces,
we had brought the water as an offering, perhaps the last,
our hands will be bowls, we thought,
and there were no more faces, only the fire, very slow,
how could it be so real and so calm,
and what did it matter if the sky was gray or red,
whether it was distinguishable from the earth or not,
what did it matter if instead of words soot came out of your mouth,
I dug a well, and shouted from below,
and the words buried me, and what did it matter,
if then the sooty smiles were the most beautiful,
if our hands were bowls and the ashes fell in spurts,
I dug a pit and was not worthy,
and who could have been worthy then,
if the words slipped through our fingers
Esta es la segunda parte de un largo poema, cuya primera versión fue publicada en los folletos de poesía Los vamos a cagar a coplas.
This is the second part of a long poem, whose first version was published in the poetry pamphlets Los vamos a cagar a coplas.
La fotografía es de piqsels, gratis para usos comerciales.
The photograph is from piqsels, free for commercial use.