Foto: Armando García. 2015.
Translations by Spencer Reece
2013
2013
Right Now
And what is the point of poetry
if here there is violence?
And what is the point of poetry
if my lightening bolts are wounds?
And what is the point of poetry
in this wide dawn
that wilts
like a star dying by its own hands?
What is the point
if each day I count less?
What is the point
if today I escape from my city
and will not know if I am reborn or broken?
What is the point
if my battered, elegant,
hope is unknown
by those who believed in me?
I move on.
I keep in me this old city.
I will believe in something,
even if my dreams
are buried like seeds
in the arid earth.
Will I be able to say goodbye
to everyone I love?
Will my broken star rise?
Will I be able, on occasion,
to reflect the brilliance
in the of eyes of the person who waits for something?
I go. With myself.
I am like a small flask in the jacket.
With rancor and suspicion,
against those who were not grateful for it.
And I see newly the sun,
profound and wide,
covering its face with its hands.
Around 4 AM, when the hidden houses
are not aware of my lightening bolts,
I say my wound will be that flower called napoleon.
Nota: Spencer Reece (Estados Unidos, 1963), poeta y sacerdote.
Entre sus reconocimientos y méritos destacan:
becas de la Fundación Guggenheim y el Fondo Nacional de las Artes, becas de la Fundación Fulbright y el Consejo de las Artes del Estado de Minnesota, una beca Witter Bynner de la Biblioteca del Congreso, entre otros premios.
