«Without Ever Coming Out», by Carlos Germán Belli

When shall I at last return,
In which minute, time or age,
To my lady’s dearest part
—No one knows it, only me—
So inside her I just stay
Without ever coming out?
To that place I want to go,
To her deepest inner side,
To the secret valley of joy
Where my body and soul are one.
I long coming back to there
Where I passed for yesterday.
It was just so little time!
But now I will stay for long:
Not as owner of a land,
But as truly worldwide king.

From ‘Under the Red Midnight Sun’.  Álvaro, cuéntame más

The Phantom

I saw a girl last night.
She dances under the dome of the sky,
Under the dome of the spanning night that surrounds the living.
She hears the music and dances to it,
The music that surrounds the silence of the dead,
The music that sounds in the morning
As the sunbeam touches the interstices of Earth
Unseen by men,
The music that sounds in the afternoon
Among the franticness of hurried men
Who die little by little.
The music that sounds in the night
Upon the quiet air that stays around
For those who listen.

I hear that music.

I stand upon a country of a vast territory,
Whose days and nights are the successions
Of sound and silence intertwined
With light and darkness.
This is a land where young men
Are launched into the work of dealing with unmatching pieces
For the sake of wage.
This is a land where old men,
Sat on very new couches,
Watch the full action of TV series
As a lifetime payment.
Old men, young men, all living
Walk their paths across this land of music
And never listen.

Until today.

Today, the cars stop suddenly in the middle of the traffic
Which so disappears.
Today, the workers forget where they were going to
And fill the buses and the streets with idle confusion.
Today, the assasins watch for the first time
The effusion of human life out of their hands.
Today, the newborns understand
The light.
Today, the elders close their eyes
And see the darkness inside them.
And the morning turns into afternoon,
And the afternoon turns into the night,
And a girl comes back to the night
And dances to the music.


Written after the daily prompt of NaPoWriMo.

The Bathroom

No one can see me through these walls
Of bricks and cement made.
I stand alone and wash my teeth
On every single day.
I sit upon a toilet and
The time, it went away,
I stand and turn and see again
Whatever that I ate.
I wash my hands with soap and I
Don’t see the dirt displayed.
I watch myself on mirror’s face
And nothing have to say,
I see a face that stares at me
And never ever fades.
But is it me? All I can know
Remains amid the space
Of air and time by walls contained
As scenery of a play
Whose secret audience may be outside
The mirror and which may
Look at the actor’s movements, but
So motionless he stays.

Written after the daily prompt of NaPoWriMo.

El ladrón

Entre tanta conmoción
va que vuela el ladrón.

Corre y corre sin parar,
no lo vayan a atrapar.

En la mano, una cartera,
un reloj y una pulsera.

En los pies, toda la prisa
y su cara no da risa.

A su espalda un policía
corre y corre por la vía.

Pero el caco va que vuela,
¿qué se habrá puesto en la suela?

Entre tanta conmoción
va que vuela el ladrón.

Escrito siguiendo la propuesta del día de NaPoWriMo.

¡Es una trampa!

El tráfico limeño sí
que lo hace a uno pensar.
Por ejemplo, recordé la vez
en que me plantaste en el concierto
de los Bomba Estéreo de Colombia.
Ésos fueron más de cien soles
que hubo que desperdiciar, ¿sabes?
Conciertazo te perdiste.
Menos mal que al final
Liliana Saumet me mandó
un beso volado de tanto
y tanto que la miré
directo a los ojos.
Aun así te extrañé
cuando todo hubo acabado.
Eres tan bonita
—y por favor por favor por favor
ni me hagas recordar tu escote—
que si nos ibas a plantar
a mi ilusión y a mí
hubieras vestido un polo
la última vez que nos besamos
que dijera bien clarito:
«¡Es una trampa!»,
como dijera el almirante Ackbar
cuando vio que la realidad era otra.

Escrito siguiendo el consejo del día de NaPoWriMo.

The Wildfire

To the people of Valparaíso

Where does it come from,
The full heat of the fire?

Does it come from the hills
Up above us,
Where the standing trees,
Rising their non-fleshed bodies
That patience made,
Dry themselves into the wind?

Does it come from the wind
Howling among the gorges of the hills,
Among the empty space that human will
Filled with garbage bags
Nurtured by time?

Does it come from time
Lapsing from one moment to another,
From one chance to another,
While life itself
Comes inside and out
Of the bodies
Reached by the Sun?

Does it come from the Sun
Whose sparkling light
In the dark night shines
Through woods and hopes
While sorrow yells?

Through Sun, wind, hills and time,
The wildfire runs.

Throughout the span of human lives,
The light ignites.

Written after the prompt of the day of NaPoWriMo.