How beautiful is Eve
How beautiful the serpent that surrounds her
The tree that grows in her waist
The fleshy fruit that her lips display
As they lean over the ocarina
Their music at the edge of the woods.
How beautiful her hair
Dark braids that fall over her perfumed shoulders
Her nose breathing other worlds
And creating for so many labyrinths
blossoms and garlands that will substitute them.
How beautiful is Eve
How beautiful her ankles
The traces she draws over the sand
To mark the path toward light and shadows.
How beautiful the children she has cast to the world
The river that descends over the hills of her belly
The volcano in her eyes of fire.
How beautiful that thinking rib
This sacred dust
This aromatic cane
That holds in its fragrant breasts
another apple for the times of rain.
PAPYRUS TO LAZARUS SISTERS
They walked in the mornings by the monasteries of Betfagé
I saw them their eyelids turnout
By the insomnia the darkness
Of their bodies caused me.
I knew the hour of their transit.
I knew they paraded naked through the stairs in the woods
Before dawn
And the lofty murmur of the planets
They were Martha and Mary
Lazarus sisters,
They were like two drops of rain
Over the desertic sands of Caparnaum
Like twilight's petal
Over the misty Tiberíades nights.
Despite the second resurrection of the flesh
They continue thinking of the raising of the house in three days,
Resurrecting Betanio
To infect with beauty the scribes of the temple.
Even after the Nazarene's death they remained beautiful
Beautiful till the fulfillment of the last roads
The only thing that differentiated them
Was the inscrutable fragrance of their clothes
The color of their lips
Retouched by the thickness of the woods
They walked in the mornings by the monasteries of Betfagé
In their vegetal vortex by the river's banks
They paraded naked like corn-fly, cajetos or weeping willows
In their travelogue toward the lighted lamps in the dark
Neither the tile, nor the chicoras or cafhíes
Provoqued within me so many beautiful things
Like the sound of their voices
In the backyard of those remote houses.
They were unbearably beautiful
Youthful, pensive,
Tall, like the silver trees in the synagogues
Where they raised their songs
And their distant virgin prayers.
While a sinner like myself
Suffered his confinement, beared his anguish
And confronted his calvary.
They, the naive ones
Doubly naive
Three times more beautiful
They sang their disdain toward the men of the earth.
Translated by Luis Rafael Gálvez
(Los Ángeles-California)
Taken from: Memorias de Alexander de Brucco.
THE WIND
The Land has an emerald wind
this breeze is the voice of the willows
these trills the voice of a ship
whose silver fish
voyage over an ocean of gadflies and yarumos.
When the wind of this Land sings
the shadows arise,
turtle doves speak about rain
and man soaks with words
the bread for a new wine.
Schuaima
Land where wind dances between the cypress trees
raising a big skirt of leaves.
What brings the breeze to her lips?
What her naked words?
What is it that the Eastern wind sings
when it turns like a spinster
another small deluge
and children jump like wheat
women overflow like jars
spirits dress up with rain
and the earth undresses its tree pore
so that the breeze may come again
and the fruit may flourish a new?
Translated by Luis Rafael Gálvez
(Los Ángeles-California)
Taken from: De regreso a Schuaima.
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