Tan lejos es el mundo que me inspiras, que tengo miedo de seguir volando por sendas de dolor y de misterio y quedarme solo Es mejor que te quiera y no te piense, cuerpo a cuerpo vencidos por la llama del amor que encadena nuestras vidas. Muy cerca Es mejor que me quede emparedado en tu abrazo carnal que me destroza, en tu instinto animal que me consume.
Further than the network of senses, than the exciting poison of hysteria, than the sweet bitterness we feel. Further than where my thoughts roam when I forget the presence of your form and I shape you in the air of my dreams. Almost at the cosmic border of beginning, in the mind of God, in the disturbing unease of light and silence. I travel so far from myself when I am on the shore of your eyes, that my racing mind forgets everything So close I no longer want to escape my body, or turn you into my dreams.
Si arrastro lo que soy y lo llevo por el fuerte declive del silencio sin poder descansar con mis palabras. Si me pesa la vida y ya no puedo la piedra de mi historia acumulada. If I drag myself down the steep slope of silence without resting with my words. If life weighs me down and I can no longer carry the stone of my long history.
I have no hands, I am incapable of caresses and touching, I am thaw of forgotten snows, I am man without name I am phantom They can destroy your sweet-smelling vessel and turn your blood into bitter water like my blood Look for the peak on the blue wings of your dreams, and reach for the highest branch to pick the sweetest of fruit. You are with me — maddening hell — trembling beside this charred body that does not feel the light of your look or your sharp, burning touch. Indifference — the death I feared — separates me from the your sobbing passions begging for my caress.
Prisoners in this knot of agony, we are the echo of a distant love and we both cry together.
Obra Poética (Tomo II)
You and I are no longer what we were together. We are someone else on this hidden cross — trembling, lifeless, weeping. Indifference erased what we dreamed of and the knot of our souls has become an anguish that buries us both. Me das la brisa que en tu boca anida y no puedo embriagar mi desconsuelo porque tu llama incita mi deshielo y me quema la hoguera de tu vida. You give me a breeze from deep inside. The essence of your dream is not mine. Soy demonio que crece en tu sonrisa, el cielo asesinado en tus pupilas; la tragedia que amarga tu saliva con el raro sabor de mis instintos.
I am the senile nest where your form is shaken — fuel of my fever — igniting the obsession of my desire and my envy of April in your cheeks. I climb the summit of your restlessness to lower your modesties, naked, and wrap them with a skillful, ardent touch until they return with the hunger that hounds me. And you are, you must be, I feel it: the human lily who expires in my night with the spasm of my agonies and waves of amorous phrases Quiero ser el cadalso de tu fuerza; tu sombra, tu tristeza, tu fantasma; el gustano que muerde tu memoria y siempre te pronuncie mis palabras.
Pero Santo o Demonio, soy tu centro; el amor con el odio de beberte; el viento que desata la marea en el desnudo mar de tu pureza. Y tengo que vivir de tus anhelos, sangrar tu boca, y contagiar mi sombra en la luz infantil de lo que esperas y en la cruda verdad de lo que gozas. III I want to be the poison inside you; the good, the tremendous, the impossible, the angel and devil in one embrace; serpent and dove in your green branch.
I want to be the scaffold of your strength; your shadow, your sadness, your specter; the worm that eats your memory and then speaks you as my words. IV I am young in your body, I am your death: the specter who lives in your blood; the man who devours your limits like the wolf that swallows the lambs. But, Saint or Demon, I am your center; the love-hate of drinking you; the wind that frees the tide in the naked sea of your purity. And I must live in your longings, bloody your mouth, and infect my shadow in the childlike view of your hopes, the raw truth of your desires.
I want to climb the clouds of your dreams, take root in the light of your brain and enslave you with my thoughts. From one life I create another and the two form my being. A ciegas voy caminando por la orilla silenciosa de tu ausencia misteriosa donde te estoy escuchando. I walk blindly along the silent shore of your mysterious absence where I am listening to you. I know that searching accelerates my fall because my stubbornness to see you, to make your life reappear, hastens my own death. Tu palabra desnuda y palpitante era sonido y eco, como si ya volviera fatigado de un lejano viaje.
Todo en ti fue la vida de tu muerte, presentido y sentido un coloquio de sangre y de misterio habitando tu frente.
You knew the expected delight of dying each day and had the power to look at death with your eyes closed. Your plain, vibrating word was sound and echo as if already returning tired from a faraway journey. The life of your death was everything anticipated and experienced a conversation of blood and mystery living within you. Your poetry cut like the edge of a thin metal blade not injuring the skin but within on its cold contact.
I hear your hidden voice; exposed, it scatters — more alive when unspoken, closer when hidden deeper. We do not miss our body, we do not suffer the absence of the skin which covers us; we are as we were before birth: eternal, alive with the fullness of heaven and penetrating like light in shadow.
On waking, none of us thinks that we were lying in the domain of death: through exhaustion, hardly agony, our reason is erased, our eyelids tenderly lowered, closing our eyes, relaxing our body, we separate from it to steal ourselves alive into dreams. How can I paint the hope born in my blood, the voice that circulates, my faraway stare, if the words are instances of agony transformed into echoes that die unexpectedly? I would rather force myself to feel what I feel than suffer in silence and appear to be calm. A poet without words. What a terrible torment! My unexpressed voice has to kill me.
Popol Vuh (Spanish Edition) by Anónimo | plusleysfigxi.tk: Books
If it was you, truthfully, the single cloud that paused its voyage beneath my eyelids and entered my blood, molding itself to my recent pain lightly, like a breeze, fragrant, almost the sound of angelic contact If it was you who, parting the dark quiet, appeared as if you were a spiritual image anxious to convince me that you go on, formless, living another life. If it was you Los muertos, si es que vuelven, tal vez ya no conserven los peculiares rasgos que nos pudieran dar la inmensa dicha de reconocerlos.
If they do return, perhaps the dead no longer have their unique features which would give us the good fortune of recognizing them. Who else could have come to visit me? I remember that I used to talk only with you about the loving siege that death wages against our life, and the two of us would talk, guessing, making conjectures composing questions, inventing answers, only to end up completely defeated, dying in life from thinking about death.
Now you already know how to unravel the mystery because you are in its lap, but I Tripping in the dark, we found that invisible space darkness forms with its wall of siege, and we found naked solitude all alone exhaling its empty beatings in silence.
Nothing exists now and the two walkers, by different but painfully similar roads, frantically look for the luminous life of the fragile star they both put out. One day, we will each tire of walking alone, lonely, through this eternal night and surround ourselves with our own lonely deaths; but then our deaths, with a new life, will save the star we lost from the shadows, and in its light we will already be invisible love.
Las cuento, muchas veces, muchas veces Y si gozo al contar, es porque siento que busco a Dios, contando sus estrellas.
César Moro. Obra poética completa. Tomo III
I have counted them many, many times I stretch out and also limit myself to the defenseless contour that delivers me to the island of oblivion where I forget. If I am his owner, why do I feel estranged from him disconnected from myself— shade of a tree — suffocating bark of my anguish, bandage that blindfolds me, fragile scaffold, magnet keeping me together and pulling me apart, matter that I drag and that drags me? This union of elements, this nest of physical battles, of incessant reactions, is my only support, the tragic origin of the force that sustains me even speaking all alone.
Todo vive latente en el silencio como en la sombra habita la luz muerta. Everything lives latent in silence like the light of death inhabiting the shadow. Inaudible latir de excavaciones son las palabras idas que siguen existiendo, sin semblante, en el libre escondite del espacio. They are souls in grief imploring the instant that articulates the sonorous vertigo of their verb, or the ardent look of some eyes reading them in their grave of letters, exhuming their experience only to sink again to the renewed dawn of the image.
You were born in me, entwined in a growing root, a cosmic knot; deep within me, the rambunctious colt longs for freedom, in love.
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II Who can I turn to in my torture? What divinity, which bright star can I ask to give this bitter sweetness to someone else? Who should I call in this dark, burning blood where I am dying? Who can I beg for a bit of tenderness in this pain of despair? In the great, eternal turning, I must do something, so when he hears my voice he will lift my words to his ear. En tu existencia veo, transparentada, la historia virginal de los primeros espasmos de la luz, y los veneros de la girante red astralizada.
In which constellations have you sparkled? How much sorrow, how many deaths, hurricanes, lightning bolts and dawns before you achieved bodily form? IV When your eyes opened to the view, you saw what truly gave life to the brightest stars and passion to the lifeless earth. In this pulse of living darkness where insomnia gathers its strength trying to connect my yearnings, with the natural desire to love growing beyond bounds, I can live eternities in an instant.
They hid your body, CHE GUEVARA, but you keep on living in the unstoppable pulse of hours, we feel you disguised as mountain, as lightning, as the angry sea, the millennial tree or the vast, free countryside. They stole your eyes, CHE GUEVARA, but you keep watching us with the fresh look of children, in the sun that rises each day, with the lofty beating of the stars and with the forests colored by hope.
DIOS es la suprema ausencia. God: the supreme absence. Supreme absence: God. This we know, my solitude and I. To think about God: to long to decipher him — to split the air and feel the pulse of the invisible cloak of his force; to look for him with doubtful eyes, to seize him from the hollow of nothingness and to shrink his vast increase to a single here and now. To savor faith with mystic rapture and to trace his monumental face with faithful longing losing ourselves in the highest depths; after tumbling through many an abyss with the crisp hollow of great volume that melts in smoke when touched.
Swollen with arrogance, we arise and climb — on the imaginary outpouring that wipes out prayers and destroys the biblical warmth that gives us breath — to the eyeless time of the emptiness to the dead weakness of the stars and from there to fall, banished, to the loneliest island of anguish. Already in the black depths of its own entrails, ceaselessly dissecting its shadows, it keeps on sifting through the bones, through the wailing, the waves, the veins until reaching the cross of defeat — the collapse of the body within the conscience.
To pull ourselves together: to shriek, to come back from the shadows with more fury to destroy the intimate failure and to return again to what we were before, continuing the search, the tracking, the stubborn descent within the chest and the futile leap toward the heights.
To think about God: to want to create him by gathering together diverse fantasies highlighting their sharp contrasts, that explode into debris and get lost in the mortal fall toward the clouds leaving us cut off, certain that he becomes more immense the harder we imagine him. To abolish him: to sense an eternity of solitude slipping away making us feel that no one grasps our growing onslaught of glances and that the entire, immense, misty, foggy labyrinth that surrounds our tangled paths is a stellar illusion.
I rest from the luminous false path, the smoking hole of the crater of emptiness, souls of millennia of broken light or dust of celestial fossils. Inquirentes caer en el espacio con su veloz asenso — como piedras que del suelo rodaran cuesta arriba y el avance las fuera carcomiendo adarme por adarme —, hasta que quedarnos libres de todo peso y toda forma, disgregados en nada y deglutidos por la insaciable gula giratoria. Salirnos del pavor Searchers falling through space — our speeding ascent like stones rolling up hill along the ground, eroding away bit by bit — until we are left free of all weight and form, disintegrated into nothingness and swallowed by an insatiable greed.
To leave dread To join together, reconnecting to what we were and returning to live in the same body, the same nightmare, the same lament, the same stubbornness to grasp, from what cannot be grasped, the same untouchable source that created us Es natural morir. We must die, but stay awake! Still, we turn our vision toward space to make it like our own; the earth, like solid tenderness and the entire universe as a unique nest without walls to protect us. To laugh hysterically at God: to challenge his silence with courage, to demand that he tell us what we are, why we are here and where we are going And with no response or even glance, we conclude that we invented him with hope, fear, expected longing and a yearning to become immortal.
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Conscious, convinced, exalted, to really live, boldly hoisting the perception of the senses and the imagination in full light, to merge the eternal with the ephemeral.