Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Miguel Iriarte

IT IS THURSDAY AND SHE SINGS

Everything is quiet under the yellow cloak of high noon
It is Thursday and it seems the world has come to a halt
The church is closed and inside there is a silence shaped like a song
That can be listened to once the choir in which she sings comes in
— or just her.

Outside no one can explain what fear and the midday sun
                                                                                are doing together
But they have everyone behind their windows
And in the town square the street children
Play at throwing stones at a cross.

You know from history that at this precise hour a crime was committed
And like millenia ago no one can do anything about it and everyone is guilty.

The panting dogs, the black salamanders, the frightened mares
Look for water and shadows to calm the death they sense in the air.
And grandmothers pray and light incense sticks and ask for silence
And demand purity and impose quiet.

But indoors religiosity excites and sin is delight
And under the clothes another world throbs on this sad Thursday.

For me it is enough that she goes on singing in the town choir
Where her voice conjures all the pain of the world
And her mouth gives caresses that save me.

It is Thursday, and as soon as the sun sets I will go out to whistle with her
While we go to the pond to bathe in grace.

ES JUEVES Y ELLA CANTA

ES JUEVES Y ELLA CANTA

Todo está quieto bajo el manto amarillo del pleno mediodía
Es jueves y parece que el mundo se hubiera detenido
La iglesia está cerrada y adentro hay un silencio con forma de canción
Que se podrá escuchar apenas llegue el coro en el que canta ella.
O solamente ella.

Afuera nadie sabe explicar qué están haciendo juntos 
                                                                           el miedo y la canícula
pero tienen a todos detrás de las ventanas.
Y en la plaza del pueblo los niños de la calle
Juegan tirando piedras para darle a una cruz.

Por la historia se sabe que a esa precisa hora un crimen se comete
E igual que hace milenios nadie podrá hacer nada y todos son culpables.

Los perros acezantes, las salamandras negras, las yeguas espantadas
Buscan aguas y sombras para calmar la muerte que se siente en el aire.
Y las abuelas rezan y preparan sahumerios y reclaman silencio
Y exigen la pureza e imponen la quietud.

Pero puertas adentro lo religioso excita y el pecado es delicia
Y bajo vestiduras otro mundo palpita en este jueves triste.

Para mí es suficiente que ella siga cantando en el coro del pueblo
Donde su voz conjura todo el dolor del mundo
y su boca fabrica caricias que me salvan.

Es jueves, y apenas baje el sol saldré a silbar con ella
mientras vamos al pozo a bañarnos de gracia.
Close

IT IS THURSDAY AND SHE SINGS

Everything is quiet under the yellow cloak of high noon
It is Thursday and it seems the world has come to a halt
The church is closed and inside there is a silence shaped like a song
That can be listened to once the choir in which she sings comes in
— or just her.

Outside no one can explain what fear and the midday sun
                                                                                are doing together
But they have everyone behind their windows
And in the town square the street children
Play at throwing stones at a cross.

You know from history that at this precise hour a crime was committed
And like millenia ago no one can do anything about it and everyone is guilty.

The panting dogs, the black salamanders, the frightened mares
Look for water and shadows to calm the death they sense in the air.
And grandmothers pray and light incense sticks and ask for silence
And demand purity and impose quiet.

But indoors religiosity excites and sin is delight
And under the clothes another world throbs on this sad Thursday.

For me it is enough that she goes on singing in the town choir
Where her voice conjures all the pain of the world
And her mouth gives caresses that save me.

It is Thursday, and as soon as the sun sets I will go out to whistle with her
While we go to the pond to bathe in grace.

IT IS THURSDAY AND SHE SINGS

Everything is quiet under the yellow cloak of high noon
It is Thursday and it seems the world has come to a halt
The church is closed and inside there is a silence shaped like a song
That can be listened to once the choir in which she sings comes in
— or just her.

Outside no one can explain what fear and the midday sun
                                                                                are doing together
But they have everyone behind their windows
And in the town square the street children
Play at throwing stones at a cross.

You know from history that at this precise hour a crime was committed
And like millenia ago no one can do anything about it and everyone is guilty.

The panting dogs, the black salamanders, the frightened mares
Look for water and shadows to calm the death they sense in the air.
And grandmothers pray and light incense sticks and ask for silence
And demand purity and impose quiet.

But indoors religiosity excites and sin is delight
And under the clothes another world throbs on this sad Thursday.

For me it is enough that she goes on singing in the town choir
Where her voice conjures all the pain of the world
And her mouth gives caresses that save me.

It is Thursday, and as soon as the sun sets I will go out to whistle with her
While we go to the pond to bathe in grace.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère