Straniera, de Winston Morales Chavarro

Straniera
Danza di fuoco
So che la morte
e’ ascoltare altre voci
E per questo
porgo il mio udito
alla caduta del tuo fiume.

Cerco la morte
E vado muto tra le pietre,
Cerco questa voce,
forse lontana?
forse vicina?
Forze dentro di me
Mascherata dentro di me.

Io so che lí
Nel silenzio buio dello specchio
Si trova il suono orchestrale
di un’ altra mattina,
La mia testa s’ aggita col vento
E piove,
Piove e ho conosciuto con la pioggia
Il dizionario aperto dal sentiero.


Trad. Di María Enza Giannetto

Bella è Eva
Bello il serpente che la circonda
L'albero che cresce nella sua vita
Il frutto carnoso che le sue labbra
mostrano
Mentre poggiano sull'ocarina
Musica al confine del bosco.
Belli i suoi capelli
-Corvi scuri che ricadono sulle sue
odorose spalle-
il suo naso che respira altri mondi
e crea per così tanti labirinti
i fiori e le ghirlande che li
sostituiranno.
Bella è Eva
Belle le sue caviglie
Le orme che disegna sulla sabbia
Per tracciare il cammino verso luce
ed ombre.
Belli i figli che ha scaraventato nel
mondo
Il fiume che discende le colline del
suo ventre
Il vulcano dei suoi occhi di fuoco.
Bella questa costola pensante
Questa polvere sacra
Questa canna aromatica
Che custodisce nei suoi fragranti
semi
Un'altra mela per le stagioni di
pioggia.

Trad. Di Antida Vetrano

PAPYRUS TO LAZARUS SISTERS

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

Taken from: Alexander de Brucco Memories.
Winston Morales Chavarro

THE WIND

THE WIND

The Land has an emerald windthis breeze is the voice of the willowsthese trills the voice of a shipwhose silver fishvoyage over an ocean of gadflies and yarumos.When the wind of this Land singsthe shadows arise,turtle doves speak about rainand man soaks with wordsthe bread for a new wine.SchuaimaLand where wind dances between the cypress treesraising a big skirt of leaves.What brings the breeze to her lips?What her naked words?What is it that the Eastern wind singswhen it turns like a spinsteranother small delugeand children jump like wheatwomen overflow like jarsspirits dress up with rainand the earth undresses its tree poreso that the breeze may come againand the fruit may flourish a new?

Translated by Luis Rafael Gálvez

Taken from: De Regreso a Schuaima
Winston Morales Chavarro

TO EVE IN EXILE

TO EVE IN EXILE


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.



Translated by Luis Rafael Gálvez (Los Ángeles-California)
Taken from: Alexander de Brucco Memories.
Winston Morales Chavarro