And I am looking for the voices on the road
to translate them
surely they will bear your name
I have learned to interpret the wind's voice
the same one that lullabies the leaves half-opened
of your tree.
They call you river and
in the frenetic droplets of the air
goes your breath holding on to the weathercocks
The sun lands impetuously
in the cup of my hand
with the gold and the wheat of your summit
Shall I ascend to the origins of language?
There the seagulls narrate
the difficult days of the sky
the mysterious transfer ot the clouds
Must I translate
the musical language of mockingbirds and blackbirds
to know you?
Shall I ask myself
woman of long dreams
and inexplicable perils
to what country are you inviting me?
I hardly know your name
the river revealed it to me
and I know that Aniquirona is
the threshold to some other paths.
Winston Morales Chavarro
Translation: Luis Rafael Gálvez