Monologue -under a tree-
To Henry Arturo, my son…
for inventing himself in each thorn.
‘I sat this morning on my balcony to look at the world. And he,
a walker, stops an instant, he greets me and goes away’
Rabindranath Tagore
With your calm eyes, I wait
for the last bird
the one
that in its accurate flight liquidates alphabets
-not the cloud that spills them
I shan’t go on tiptoeing
with a firm step
denounced in the word
tomorrow
ethereal to the last thunder
when I render the spring of my spirit
-in some market
taken by the wind’s hand
I will lie alert to the wheat and the awakening of the lotus
In the weary wood
-with my eyes fertile for birds´ alcoves.
Published @ GustavoTissoco’sBlog
MONÒLEG – (AL PEU D’UN ARBRE)
Espere amb els teus ulls encalmats
pel darrer ocell
aquell
que en vol cert liquide abecedaris
-no el núvol que els vessa
no continuaré de puntetes
caminant veraç
denunciat en la paraula
demà
eteri al darrer tro
quan lliuraré la primavera del meu mi esperit
-en algun mercat
de la mà del vent
jauré atent al blat i a la despertada del lotus
al bosc las
-amb els meus ulls fecunds per a alcova d’ocells