Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Under the light of my blood


Could you contain my sighs of solitude
by harboring the anxiety in this fragile sea?
On your streets lies the tenderness, aging,
incandescent wind shelters and recalls
them in the distance
the flame anchored in your colors.

Lucid, shadowed reminiscent garden
in an infinite insomnia
harnessing the dawn.
Throbbing uniquely,
uniquely understanding,
following the beat, freshness,
watercolor eyes of the city.
Giraldilla, proclamation, mystery,
chaste voice in a calm urge.
I consecrate your vitreaux,
sensing your baroque capitals,
Dusty, unraveled.
I'd like to talk:
Game, rainbow, love,
People, noise, cars;
Essays on flavors.
A captivated rumor,
your arbor dances a naked certainty:
A park, a cloud, summer, God.
The boundary hurts the clef,
the litany resorts to music,
when the stars nurse your elusive chant.

Far… blood calls for your passion,
Languishing, nobody edifies it,
in the absent dwelling of your sun, your moon.
The corner dwellers come to my mind,
the adjacent towns, trembling bedrooms.
I seek within you, dear city,
that home, The Cathedral,
that childhood, concrete flesh,
mother's kiss fading goodbye:
upholds my venerated memories.


For Sandra Henricks, a Peter Pan

Your word is born wounded,
any Saturday, reflections-pages.

You want a homeland to tell me about
and a void was necessary
so as to never know which of my selves opened your cathedral,
in strange grains,
on the other side of the fanfare.


Make my name sing softly in the wind,
it is perfect to hear the moaning of my fire.
Spread your tender dust.

You, hollow steel made scream,
rising tide. In the name of absences
will you liberate the distant moons?

Don't proclaim your legacy.

Solitude reeks
and evil omens then
shake my inaccessible rock.

Your tomorrow my only destiny,
blue replete with far-off blues,
where coronets play the song of our free will
because another wayward man calls the tune.

I will make you draw my memories,
they are all surely worthy of your storms,
they spill over that stillness
that returns on digging out my silences.


On my throat's wings
you cling to the carnation
and I know nothing of loves or caresses.

Row by row I ask the beating,
your beating in the essences of a flash of lightning
that plays when my songs float away.

I want to rescue the innocence,
space beyond your space: balcony,

You turn into air,
exist in the leaves of silence.
Raindrop, transport my homesickness in your blind mirror!

Soon you sculpt the World between my hands,
swiftly you carry it to the summits
of your successive existences.

I want to refuse your eyes,
first I will search for them in my reality,
in my chiaroscuro garden.

You see me leave, accompanied by the useless, aching smoke.
How will my journey end,
if in the humidity you preside so intensely?

The divine trapped the moaning,
April 2nd of a dry spring in my water.

Will you come mother to deliver my gravity to doubt?
Will I feel your flights that I do not see?
Release me from all confusion, painter of a thousand sounds,
all of them lucid on your omnipotent palette.

I am not like the others,
I must go on with your butterfly on my back,
perhaps unique in your organ of patience,
I must go on watching you weave the angelic nakedness
of your mud in invisible touches.

Esther, now always under the light of my blood.
Will you embrace the verse you subtly implore?
Does the marrow of our soliloquy
in the breeze watch over your fate?

Author: Jorge Enrique Gonzalez Pacheco, La Habana, Cuba.
Translators: Vanesa Cresevich & Martin Boyd
Book: Under the light of my blood
ISBN: 978-1-4251-8036-2 (Soft)
ISBN: 978-1-4251-8037-9 (e-book)
(Spanish & English edition, Canada-2009).