lunes, 19 de junio de 2017

Aseem Kaul (trad.) (Fothcoming Rattle Mag.)


“La locura”, escribe Ghalib, “siempre tiene sus razones;
Seguramente existe algo que el velo intenta proteger”
Y yo pienso en todos estos a
ños que hemos pasado
escuchado estos ghazals, los versos
cayendo de nuestros labios como pedazos de cristales exquisitos
de marcos de ventanas rotos;
moldeando nuestras bocas a su tristeza
desabrochando nuestros cuellos para que su voz manchara
el irritado lenguaje de nuestras canciones.
¿De qué nos hemos estado escondiendo?
qué deseo encontramos dentro
que disfrazamos con las ropas de un hombre muerto.

-Aseem Kaul


Ganso Canadiense, CR VocalesV


Quién soy sino una sombra
identificada por 300 mg de
quelque chose
un ganso dormido, gritando, ¡estuve aquí! ¡Estuve aquí!
y volando lejos, otra vez,
porque siempre es invierno donde sea que voy
y en cualquier época del año.
Salí de mi historia de la misma forma en la que entré:
Estrangulándome, envenenándome, saltando desde ventanas ajenas.

¿Qué significa que algo te importe?
Además de mirar a tu herida sangrante
y sentir asco.

Hoy, alguien arrolló a una ardilla en la carretera,
mientras yo caminaba a la oficina de correos,
cerca de Ontario Lake
-nunca me tomes en serio con las direcciones.-
La ardilla murió, y yo quedé angustiada a su lado.
La tomé entre mis manos entonando daimoku.
Era toda desfiguración y frivolidad,
fue la primera vez que estuve tan expuesta a las entrañas.
Su nariz estaba intacta.

Solo permíteme morir como ella alguna vez.

No debería escribir sobre estas cosas.

Por un tiempo he tenido miedo de escribir mis poemas,
siempre tienden a repetirse a sí mismos en la vida real,
con tal fuerza,
que termino rezándole a dioses antiguos por piedad,
vaya variante estética para mi nueva vida suburbial.

Abajo en Massachusetts, una tal Michelle ha sido condenada
por incitar a su novio depresivo a suicidarse.
Cautivada, leo las noticias, ¿Qué sintió ella?
Luego de ordenarle que volviera a su camioneta
estacionada en un Kmart,
y le exigió prender el gas y esperar a la muerte.
¿Qué sintió una vez que su último mensaje no obtuvo respuesta?

Soy una millenial, y si,
todos estamos locos.

CR VocalesV

Ghalib by Aseem Kaul (Fragment)

Munch -Two women on the shore

"Madness”, Ghalib writes, “is never without its reasons;
surely there is something that the veil is meant to protect”
And I think of all the years we have spent
listening to these ghazals, the verses
falling from our lips like pieces of exquisite glass
from broken window frames;
shaping our mouths to his sadness,
unbuttoning our collars to let his words stain
the rubbed language of our songs.
What have we been hiding from,
my friend? What longing is this inside us
that we disguise in a dead man’s clothes

-Aseem Kaul

viernes, 16 de junio de 2017

Joan Didion "Goodbye to all that"

Joan Didion

"All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in the afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."

Joan Didion  

Canada Goose, CR VocalesV

Grace Cob

Who am I but a shadow
identified by 300 mg of
quelque chose
a sleeping goose, yelling I was here, I was here
and flying away, yet again,
because it is always winter wherever I go
at any time of the year.
I exited my story, in the same way I entered it:
strangling myself, poisoning my lips, jumping from strangers’ windows.

What does it mean to care?
Beside looking at your bleeding wound
and feel disgusted.

Someone hit a squirrel on the road today,
while I walked to send some mail
near Ontario Lake,
- do not ever take me seriously with directions -
The squirrel died, and I was left in total angst by her side
I took her with my bare hands while chanting daimoku
she was all disfiguration and shallowness,
it was the first time I felt so exposed to the real meaning of guts.
Her nose was yet intact.

Just allow me to die like her someday.
I should not write such dark things.

For a while I’ve been afraid of writing poems,
since they always tend to repeat themselves in real life
with such an unimaginable force,
that I end up praying to old gods for mercy,
what a key variation to my new suburban life.

Down in Massachusetts a girl named Michelle has been convicted
for encouraging her mentally ill boyfriend to kill himself,
mesmerized I watched the news, what did she feel?
After ordering him to get back in his truck
that was parked at a Kmart,
and commanded him to turn on the gas
and wait for death to come.
What did she feel once her last message received no answer?

Crazy millennials,
I’m a millennial and yes,
we are all crazy.

CR VocalesV

domingo, 23 de abril de 2017

viernes, 21 de abril de 2017

A Squirrel on the tree, CR VocalesV

Marina Abramovic, Green Dragon (1989)

There are two worlds running parallel in my veins.
In the first one I’m alive,
I listen to Tom Waits while drinking Mate
and keep on insisting on writing the poems that no one cares to read
or publish.
And I’m happy, I mean, I have intense intervals of happiness,
before sadness strikes again like a jealous lover.
I read with him by my side, I hug him,
and we make love, like two lascivious aliens.
Some days we have casual guests
and we enjoy seducing them together and buy them some wine
before going to bed in a collective hug.

In the second world
I’m dead.
I hung myself from a tube in the ceiling
and they only found me three days later.
I still had my shoes on, and an open book on my bed.
I left a note with all my passwords where I asked
to be forgotten.
The last thing I saw before leaving for good
was the face of a squirrel on the tree, right in front of my window,
her eyes were full of questions that I just couldn’t answer.

And in between these two realities:
the powerful force of love,
and an everlasting grief.

- CR VocalesV

Fragment of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Lucy Moorehead

"Love. Quite impossible for me, without emotional connotations. (Love. But what is love?) Not impossible for them, or anyhow they build the word love after the fact of sex. That’s all. I think it has something to do with a loneliness of the skin, a primitive sense of the terrible solitude of being a human; one needs the close physical contact, as one needs fire. Something like that. I wish I were a nymphomaniac, so much easier. Instead am fastidious and faithful. Awful."

-Martha Gellhorn

Martha Gellhorn on Sex

"If I practiced sex out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it ... seemed a defeat. I accompanied men and was accompanied in action, in the extrovert part of life; I plunged into that ... but not sex; that seemed to be their delight, and all I got was a pleasure of being wanted, I suppose, and the tenderness (not nearly enough) that a man gives when he is satisfied. I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents."

Fragments of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Bill Bufford

"I was incoherent with rage. Days have passed and now I am coherent with rage. I think in fact that you have become a very shady character, glitzy-shady. I will not cut you dead in the street but I will never again have anything to do with you."

-Martha Gellhorn

martes, 18 de abril de 2017

Anchorage (Trad. Espanol) CR VocalesV

Soy resistente
he tocado las aguas frías de Anchorage
con mi cuerpo desnudo
He matado mi alma con mis manos
y he besado a los hombres y mujeres de mi vida
antes de abandonarlos.

Soy resistente
he sobrevivido al suicidio leyendo Foucault,
y el lenguaje es mi nuevo super poder.
He forzado a mi lengua a no moverse por días
y me he resignado al destino
sentada en el parque,
como si la contemplación fuera otra forma
de silenciar los gritos.

Estoy enfurecida
odio la pulcritud de tus manos
cuando me estrangulas y me hablas de amor.
Nuestros cuerpos se arrodillan ante nosotros
para recordarnos que no hay dioses de reemplazo
¿Qué tanto te asusta eso?

Es absurdo creer que el tiempo curara nuestra pena
porque lo poco que sabemos se mide en días de dolor
y resistencia, y un profundo respeto por la urgencia
de las bestias lamiendo nuestras pieles.

Inclinas tu cabeza ante mí
y yo me pongo de rodillas ante ti
nuestra señal de respeto mutuo
y el recordatorio que
hemos intercambiado sangre
y muertes
y nos hemos transformado en algo
aún más hambriento y violento
con una vida aparte
y una inevitable fragilidad humana.

Anchorage, CR VocalesV

I’m resistant
I have touched the cold waters of Anchorage
with my naked body
I have killed my soul with my bare hands
and I have kissed the men and women
of my life, before abandoning them.

I’m resistant
I survived suicide by reading Foucault,
and language is now my new superpower.
I forced my tongue to stop moving for days
and I resigned myself to fate,
sitting on a bench at the park
as if contemplation was another form of silence.

I am enraged
I hate the cleanliness of your hands
when you strangle me and talk to me about love.
Our bodies kneel before us to remind us
that there are no other gods but us
how scary is that?

It is absurd to believe that time will heal our sorrows
for the little we know can be measured in days of pain
and resilience, and a profound respect for the urgency
of the beasts licking our skins.

You bow your head before me
and I go down on you
our sign of mutual respect
and a reminder that
we have exchanged blood
and deaths
and we grew into something hungrier
with a life of its own
and an inevitable human frailty.

domingo, 26 de marzo de 2017

Minsk, CR-VocalesV


Era verano y estábamos sentados en el suelo
al borde de un puente abandonado
cerca de Minsk.
Allí me hablaste de tu amante bielorrusa,
una rubia preciosa, de piernas perfectas,
forjadas, de pli
é en pli
é,  con años de ballet.
Una mujer hermosa pero de corazón frágil.

Yo te escuchaba en silencio, hacía frío,
balanceaba mis pies sobre el Svislach
tú hablabas con franqueza.

La viste unas dos veces entre casa de amigos,
un día te invitó a su piso
a bañarte en su bañera
luego de que comentaras cuánto te gustaba.

Y como en la vida nunca hay demasiado tiempo,
olvidaste su oferta, hasta que llegó el invierno
y la llamaste, y te dijo que fueras que había agua caliente
y asististe al encuentro de una historia que terminaba
luego de un par de días.

Fuiste pudoroso y cerraste la puerta antes de desvestirte,
debió ella tocarla y preguntar si necesitabas algo,
tu dijiste que no,
que ya tenías toalla.

Allí estallé en risas, y me toqué el estómago y el pecho
para poder respirar. Tú también reíste. Para ese
entonces en tu historia, ya habías salido del baño
y la masturbabas detrás del sofá.

Le abriste el pantalón y moviste su ropa interior
para tener espacio con tus dedos,
movías tu dedo índice y el del medio
de un lado a otro, de arriba abajo
y ella comenzaba a moverse y a respirar más rápido.
Y viste al orgasmo en sus ojos azules
y terminaste con la determinación de quien busca
salvarse de una huida.

No duraron mucho,
pero ahora estamos en Minsk y la recuerdas
su padre fue un desaparecido de la dictadura
y a ella la recuerdas porque no estás con ella.
Su cabellera larga, sus ojos tristes, sus labios gruesos,
sus intenciones precisas, sus pocas palabras,
sus muchos intentos, su decepción cuando te fuiste.

No puedes separar al dolor del lenguaje,
como cuando te estrangulo y te pido que
me folles luego de contarme tus historias.
Es cierto, los hombres son atractivos
gracias a las mujeres hermosas
que estuvieron con ellos.

El viento nos ahuyenta y yo comienzo a sangrar,
ves la sangre que recorre mis piernas,
yo me levanto el vestido y te obligo a contar
las gotas que logran llegar a mis pies.

La diosa sangra frente al hombre pagano
y obliga a que le rece.


sábado, 25 de marzo de 2017

Cambridge (Fragmento), CR -VocalesV

Nunca escribiré un poema honesto
sobre lo que realmente escondes;
tus falsos intelectuales,
la ausencia de gatos en tus calles,
la forma en que estrangulas al que llega
y las sonrisas absurdas en los labios de tus víctimas.
Los sin techos invadidos por la indiferencia
y pateados por las franquicias que promocionas
cuando pagan un café y se arropan del frio.
Tu colección de antidepresivos que prescribes y vendes
para esconder la enfermedad mental de tus calles.
Tienes a MIT, tienes a Harvard, una reputación triunfante
y una minoría de inadecuados, dentro de la que me incluyo.
Pero te falta
l’esprit y se nota cuando sale la luna
y solo unos pocos aparecen en tus aceras a bañarse.

Eres un nido de corporaciones,
un pasillo oscuro en mitad de una aldea,
Chernóbil años después del desastre,
y una polaroid en blanco y negro de Jim Crow
bautizando la ley de derechos civiles en el 64.
¿Qué lengua habla esta ciudad tan vacía?
Un miligramo de Clonazepam para olvidarte.

CR- VocalesV

Una historia de amor: Mate y gym


domingo, 26 de febrero de 2017

Martha by Tom Waits

And those were days of roses,
Poetry and prose and Martha
All I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows,
We'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

- Tom Waits

Poema 4, CR VocalesV

Pasará el tiempo y seguirás creyendo que has fallado.
No entenderás
  la nostalgia salvo con los años,
y le pondrás nombres y rostros y 300 miligramos
de cualquier cosa que te ayude a confrontar lo que viene.
No entenderás la memoria si no cuando aquello
que no podías olvidar se haya ido,
y solo quede una pequeña imagen de su voz.
Habrá una marca enorme en tu brazo izquierdo
en el lugar exacto donde la enfermedad posó sus músculos.
Seguirás yendo a los happy hours para enfermos mentales
a celebrar que sigues viva.
Te harás adicta a nuevas adicciones
menos amargas que las anteriores.
Te dejarás golpear por un dios que prometió salvarte
y aprenderás que no puedes descifrar al mundo con palabras.
Te seguirá defraudando el lenguaje
y odiarás a la razón porque no te llevó a nada,
salvo a la manipulación racional de tus emociones
y ahora eres distante y calculadora, llorando a escondidas
por vergüenza a ser vista sintiendo algo más que lástima.
Los grandes hombres te parecerán pequeños en persona,
y te alegrará constatar que los humanos son tan simples
como siempre creíste.
Caminarás y ya no verás árboles
si no ramas en donde poder colgarte.
Pero sabrás respirar  con precisión cuando tu corazón estalle
y te encuentres paralizada en mitad de la calle,
la música aquietará el ruido ajeno y te conocerás mejor
en cada paso, en cada pánico asociado con la idea de vivir.
Reconocerás tus lugares seguros: él, por supuesto y tus libros.
Valorarás a tus muertos y guardarás sus fotos
solo para recordarte lo infeliz que te hicieron
mientras estuvieron vivos.
Y seguirás hablando con los gatos,
secretamente envidiando su manera de vivir.
Serás feliz, pero sabrás de inmediato que durará poco
y harás las paces con esas circunstancias.
Yfinalmente desaparecerás,
solo los gatos se preguntarán a donde has ido.

CR -VocalesV

domingo, 19 de febrero de 2017

Indiferencia, CR VocalesV (trad.)

No enterré a nadie para llegar tan lejos
tan solo tragué algunas almas
y rompí algunas promesas que hice
sabiendo que nunca las cumpliría

No maté,
incluso cuando quise.
En cambio,
opté por ciertos términos conciliatorios
que no tenían sentido
pero me darían paz mental.

Eso es lo que me dijeron

Nací en una prisión
no lo digo figurativamente,
yo nací en una celda oscura.
Has estado alguna vez en una?
Alguna vez te acercaste a un hombre
que lo perdió todo
salvo su humanidad?

No, no lo has hecho.
Una prisión debe parecerte un lugar lejano
un mundo fantástico, quizás.
Como Chernóbil es un lugar turístico
para los turistas,
o un lugar de creación
para los artistas.

Donde está tu hogar?
me pregunta un extraño.
Lo miro y me esfuerzo en sonreír:
Mi hogar está en donde estoy ahora
por el tiempo que me quede.

Hay algo hermoso en esta falta de identidad,
abandono quizás
o aún mejor, indiferencia.

CR -VocalesV

viernes, 17 de febrero de 2017

Mary Oliver, Fragment from Blackwater Woods


To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

- Mary Oliver (Ohio, 1935)

miércoles, 15 de febrero de 2017

What you can't bury... Margaret Atwood

Nicolas Stael

What you can’t bury give away
what you can’t give away you must carry with you, 
it is always heavier than you thought.

-Margaret Atwood

lunes, 13 de febrero de 2017

And I.... Because of you, CR VocalesV

“First love never dies, but real love comes to bury it alive…”
-Mahmoud Darwish

When I met you, we were already late for everything
but we passed through open gates smiling,
accepting our faith.
I pulled the night out of your tongue
and you discovered true darkness
in my eyes.
Never had you seen anyone looking
so unintentionally sad.

There were balloons, dances, squatters
and a world in miniature to take our clothes off
and walk naked.
Your soul was an open window that filled
the house with fresh air,
a white flag in the middle of an open field,
I observed you so much those days
that my memories run in my head like scenes of a movie.

You crushed my alienation with music and philosophers
and second-hand books that you bought in every corner
just because you liked to see me smile.
I will never forget how diligently you corrected my French
ever so gentle, ever so patient,
listening for hours while I recited the verbs, fascinated and frustrated,
and proceeding without complains when at the beginning of a film
I would shout at you
s'il te plait mon amour les sous-titres, ils parlent très vite!
and you would just look at me, laughing at my temper, and my accent,
and kissing me, and then we would forget about the film
and now we keep a list of unwatched films that gets larger with the days.

And I learned your past full of miscarriages and Russian dolls
and I pierced my nipple to avoid killing you at night in your sleep
and slowly you understood how crazy I was
and you stayed and loved me even more, nevertheless.
And one night you told me that loving me was holding
my hand at the hospital hoping for me to wake up.

And we learned to bleed together
and now it is hard to remember what it was like
to walk the streets without you.
And when you’re gone
I refuse to leave our place, I do not open the curtains
and I purposely stay in the dark, waiting
like I never waited for anyone before,
like our cat in front of the window
I stay,
I do not abandon anymore.

And when you come back I yell at you
“I can’t write anymore, you make me too happy!”
and you laugh offended,
and you hold me by the waist and I dare to go out
to see the world again, to discover the smells,
the colors, the people, I learn to speak my languages again,
and I relearn to turn my head
 whenever someone calls me by my name.
I relearn all the things that I forget when you’re gone.

And when I go mad, you let me go mad
but you never leave my side
just as you never attempt to give me peace,
instead, you go to bed with me
surrounded by my demons
and you hear me breathe until I fall asleep
before you fall asleep too.
You understand my nature with your silence
and your wisdom never ceases to surprise me
but above all it is your mind I respect the most,
your mind and the immense influence it has
in everything I do.

I carry your voice in my rotten veins,
I carry your thoughts in my childless womb,
I carry your promises in my hand,
like a beggar would carry his coins.
I carry the smell of the summer rain
that repeats itself in a loop
allowing me to see the two of us
three years ago
crossing the Blauwbrug in Amsterdam
with a flat tire in your bike,
knowing already that we wouldn’t let go.

That night I became what I wanted to be
and I carry that truth like an offering
to the old gods.
You ripped my chest like an executioner
and when I looked at you I asked:
"If we're one, why aren't you bleeding?"



Widener Library

If anyone comes to the gates of poetry and expects to become an adequate poet by acquiring expert knowledge of the subject without the Muses’ madness, he will fail, and his self-controlled verses will be eclipsed by the poetry of men who have been driven out of their minds.


domingo, 12 de febrero de 2017


NYC, 2016

Herbert Marcuse wrote one day that Western culture is inherently repressive, for it sacrifices happiness for social progress.

And he was so right... HE WAS SO RIGHT!

It is so sad: we live in a "progressive society" full of unhappy individuals. We are all victims of a system imposed by elites, that suck up all of our happiness but promise us a future. Like a rapist caressing the victim's hair after the violence.

And yet all other countries try to emulate Western states, all other people try to emulate Western people, while the West tries to make it clear: there are plenty of differences between us. And goes on to define itself through its sounding differences with "the others." The others will resemble the West only as far as the West allows them to resemble it, insofar as it fits its interests.

Western culture cannot exist without "the others:" that portion of the world that is backwards, slow, and so non-western; those minorities that do not resemble the white males from the West, but that are so needed because the oppressors need to construct their opposites.

I finish my heartfelt discourse and he tells me "You're hyper-sensitive, feelings have overtaken your objectivity." He kisses my forehead and leaves.

Sometimes he's so establishment and I'm a firm believer of the Frankfurt School. Love can be weird.

CR- VocalesV

viernes, 10 de febrero de 2017

Dive in, CR VocalesV

Every Friday at 11:00, I meditate for ten minutes
and then I sit on a bench near my place and refuse to talk
for half an hour.
Patience, I think, is a brutal cordiality of time.
I see dogs and squirrels, sometimes a timid rabbit comes by
and of course I see people passing by
always two humans together, or only one with a coffee
or wearing earphones. (I like the ones who walk alone and wear earphones)
The more I see them, the more alienated I feel
what am I doing here? Why did I choose this place?
Why am I tormenting myself with this experience?
To understand my pain, you first need to understand
the things I have rejected my entire life:
I have rejected conventional thoughts and that rejection
only gets sharper the older I get: marriage, babies, time, adulthood and its meanings
they’re all structures of power that I do not want to submit to.
I have rejected any external factor that might control my freedom
for that matter I have even rejected hunger if it interrupts me from being myself.
I already rejected the perfect accommodated life with a bright future
and that has been my best decision so far.
I reject the UN, I reject the manipulative project of human rights,
I reject the calculating version of democracy liberals want to sell us
I reject conservatives too,
I refuse to keep on fooling myself with the idea of equality,
and I reject identity, that imaginary concept that only serves to buy loyalties.
In general, I have always rejected imposed systems
that satisfy the interests of the few at the expense of individual freedom.
Am I an individualist? Maybe
yet I cannot define myself under political categorizations
I would go as far as to define myself with a language I’ve invented.
Everything we give for granted is contaminated with a past history
that never happens to be innocent.
There are no ontological truths: time as we know it today
 is not an invisible ethereal substance that has always existed,
but a creation of capitalism to regulate and exploit the working class.
Our languages and races have not always been tools to categorize people
they are the products of colonization and the need to preserve a sense of superiority
in finding a hierarchy between the old world and the new world.
We were not always religious; at least we did not have to pray to just one male god
imposed by institutions that resemble corporations with political ties.
Then I interrupt my thoughts to look around me,
 it is cold, there is enough snow to hide,
and there is a certain peace in this place that I reject but feel so attracted to.
Most of these people are in search of money and fame
and they seem to have it all figured out
while I still can’t figure out what to do with this unbearable weight we call life
they plan their future, and I’m too busy keeping myself from going mad in the present.
I admire how easily they fit in the different systems that have been created for all of us to fit in.
You see, my pain lies in my empty promise of never submitting to a conventional life
yet I studied law and came to Harvard:
“There is nothing conventional about Harvard”
a classmate tells me,
and I just look at him curiously trying to figure out what hidden ideas
I can find behind his eyes.
He wants to run for office one day, mind you.
What can come after this? An 8:00 to 6:00 some sort-of-job?
Am I on my way to become another passive slave?
Or have I landed in here to discover what I do not want to be?
It is not Harvard, or the systems, it’s me.
I have found shelter in Foucault and I have realized
that in order to truly free myself I just need to dive in.


viernes, 3 de febrero de 2017

Desperate endings


I regret your tongue so full of tone-policing
telling me the things that I already know.
You move your hand and signal me
separating me from the rest
with dark eyes full of anger.

I have no currency in this wasteland
you call home.

You want to reduce me to a moral imperfection
and vindicate yourself as my savior
yet, it is not me whom you’re saving
but yourself.

It is sad to be someone else’s metaphor.

When I think of you, I think of a locked window
and a thousand letters scattered in a lodge
after the author’s death.
I think of me as an old woman burning alive,
in a ruined house overlooking the sea.

We live in a desperate world
that needs desperate love
desperate pleasures
but mostly,
 desperate endings.


jueves, 2 de febrero de 2017

viernes, 27 de enero de 2017

Lo niego todo, Joaquin Sabina

Me echaron de los bares
que usaba de oficina
y una venus latina
me dio la extremaunción.

Lo niego todo
aquellos polvos y estos lodos,
lo niego todo
incluso la verdad

La leyenda del suicida
y la del bala perdida
la del santo de oro
si me cuentas mi vida,
lo niego todo.

miércoles, 18 de enero de 2017

Subterráneo, CR VocalesV


Ocurre que a veces olvidamos la lengua.
Corregimos la gramática en silencio,
sin poder pronunciar una palabra.
A veces elegimos un exilio
cauto y sincero,
porque nos confundimos con un extranjero
al bajarnos del subte
y ya él no es él, ni yo soy yo,
nos miramos inquietos, pero sabemos que no hay salida
y la metáfora es el único lugar de encuentro.

Él sube las escaleras y yo subo a otro tren.

No tengo nada que decir de tu tierra
Salvo lo que diría un extraño:
que no hay palabras para decirte
lo que la vida pudo haber sido.

¿Qué fuiste tú en su vida?

Un grito doloroso
y luego
un profundo silencio.
CR VocalesV