• El silencio es de mármol. El silencio es la respuesta de todas las preguntas.

  • ¿Existe alguna tierra donde los latidos son los creadores del propio corazón?

  • Será que el infinito es mucho más pequeño si se mira de cerca.

  • Es una tarde roja, amarilla, celeste y esto es cualquier lugar.

  • Que no crezca jamás en mis entrañas esa calma aparente llamada escepticismo.

  • Doy por cierta la sed de infinitud que me espolea.


May that apparent calm called scepticism
never riddle my heart.

Let me escape
from the numbness of cynicism
from the impartiality of shrugged shoulders.

Let me believe always in life
let me believe alwaysin infinite possibilities.

Deceive me, song of the sirens
confer a gleam of naivety!

Epidermis, never resemble
a frozen implacable hide.

Let me always cry
for impossible dreams
for forbidden loves
for girlish fantasies torn into pieces.

Let me escape from straight-jacketed realism.

Safeguard these songs on my lips,
may they be numerous, noisy and replete with chords.

To sing away the threat of silent times.

The serpent

Have you ever heard about a serpent
whose malicious method of attack
is to act lifeless and defenseless
at the bottom of a lake?

The prey, convinced that it is dead,
approach with their guard down
to pay the steep price of this crowning innocence
of encroaching on the executioner.

Like a deceitful snake,
time tends to give us the illusion
to think that its threat does not exist.

The youth, brief and beautiful,
leaves it lurking, a coward,
at the bottom of the lake.

And we dance, ignoring it,
unable to comprehend in our futile efforts
the betrayal it holds for us.

False flatterer, it pretends to give us
everything that it already knows
that soon it shall take away.

When we see the face of the serpent
when at the end of the ruse we realize,
it is often very late, far into the night
and we are almost always too tired.

The young poet remembers his father

Now I know that I passed through your life
like rivers pass beneath bridges,
indifferent, troubled, prideful,
with the nebulous triviality
of little things that seem eternal.

Often the obvious
hides behind a halo of uncertainty,
behind the habitual slowness, indistinguishable
from the runaway aura of unique experiences.
It's difficult to know
that the rough beauty of living day by day,
so selfless,
born without clamor or pretense,
is in essence so magical and emphatic
it is impossible to intentionally imitate.

And it is even more difficult
to understand that the celebration of simple things
almost always ends
long before the will of the reveller.

Motionless I saw the silent parade of your life
pass before my eyes
with your weary autumn dreams,
your inner joys,
and your sleeplessness slightly warm.

I think I'm right if I say

I never gave you anything that was not
a gift to myself.

And yet, I asked so much of you.

Today, motionless once again, I go unarmed
to this bitter parade of your absence
while my heart, divided and amazed
begins to discover like the poet
that life goes on in earnest.

I remember you; It's cold.

And the cold brings me back
to your subtle way of
offering me, at the same time, an errant heart,
luck in a Las Vegas casino,
rain in the desert,
the verses of Machado in the outskirts of town.

Now I know that I passed through your life
indolent and unsuspecting, without wonder,
just as all men tend to live
who do not yet know loss.

The wounded woman

Only if you once loved
with tooth and nail
no safety net
no life jacket
are you able to understand the bottomless vertigo
that opens at the feet of despair.

She thought she'd found the source of the beginning
when she met him in the middle of the earth
with no shield other than his skin,
polished by the sun like ancient gold.

She loved him without precariousness or questions
lovingly, silently
with that voluptuous gratitude
that the spring rain awakens.

Everything was so simple.

The silver-plated verses of countless poets
seemed to follow her everywhere
as if her heart had become
a faithful pet.

Because nothing endures eternally
one night she learned, as so many have done
before and since
that love is a river with its own rapids
and others' peaceful pools
that always flows to the sea.

Look at it this way: life has taught you,
following its habit of a tireless teacher,
how the soul draws
serene scars on old wounds.

Outline of shadows

Today must have been Friday everywhere,
many angels have fallen
to the pavement from rooftops.

Friday is not a day, but a compound tense
subjunctive, future, plural, past perfect.

A customs post on the border
that separates the living from the surviving.

It must have been Friday
and you are not with me.

But your absence is advancing
viscously like a dense levee.

Your soul surrounds me, somnambulant, celestial
determined to turn weightlessly inside me
emerging from everywhere, bursting with everything
returning to nothingness, that synonym
of a Friday night and an empty bed.

Bécquer and rock and roll

I know it's only rock'n'roll.
But I like it.

You have also been twelve years old.

You also recognize
the trembling of the skin as you make your way.

You have felt the fire in your eyes
that experience intensity for the first time.

It's winter. My child-like fingers
push eagerly, freeing a poem.

Behind there is a young man with a goatee
and the endless eyes of a sensual dreamer.

Words scurry across my chest
like starving ants...

Suddenly, a direct hit
to my conscience,
just like when I listen to rock'n'roll.

The profoundest place of meaning.

Poetry is the opposite of death.

A sudden certainty of the unknown.

Maybe it's only rock'n'roll.

But I like it.

(*) Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer is a well-known and loved Spanish poet of the romantic period, whose lyrical poems are learnt by heart by children and conform the Spanish sentimental education

Any way the wind blows

For all those who feel that they aren’t in control

I would have liked to be the disciple of Icarus.
It would have been beautiful to celebrate
the wedding of Calisto and Melibea.
I would have liked to be
a Hittite before Queen Nefertiti
young Werther in Rio de Janeiro
the dazzling lady from Seville
for whom Don José rejected Carmen.

If only I could have been the poet’s grove
with its green tree and its white well
the fiscal inspector
with whom Mayakovsky spoke.

I would have liked loving you. I swear it.

Only lots of times wishing just isn’t enough.

Blessed Joy

They confuse you with others, joy:
ingenuousness, simplicity,

They underestimate you with diminutives
substitute for happiness
eternally impoverished sister of euphoria.

They seem not to remember the icy routine
when demands are drained of blood
and dread imprisons like a precipice.

Don’t pick up the gauntlet, I beg of you,
forget the challenge that ignorance casts out.
Don’t abandon us in the middle of some ocean,
without your light, joy,
the one with outstretched hands
the one who makes the soul a liveable place.

Don’t heed the sounds from the trenches,
the vain rhetoric of the opportunists.
You are the most unique distillate of liberty,
the spontaneous orgasm of the spirit.

Well-found joy
the purest of tastes
the pleasing one
you who live and reign in our cleansed marrow
now and in the dawn of every now
stay with us.

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