Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gonzalo Márquez Cristo

RESTITUTIONS

I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.

Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And even though I ignore that around me abysses are born, I was originally blemished by happiness, by its inclement summit.

The invading substractions of memory. The struggle of the root. The antiquity of silence . . .

I don’t put flowers in the cemetery of dreams, but I go on in spite of all the quicksands of the spirit.

The guilt that does not allow you to leave is love.

And now fog, rain, absence . . .

The unbalance called beauty, the terrible abandonment of the sacred, the igneous rose guiding me in desperation . . .

I know the path will end up finding me.

As all that becomes visible to die.

RESTITUCIONES

RESTITUCIONES

Pretendo que todo lo perdido se convierta en poema.

Las heridas como los huracanes tienen nombre. Y aunque ignoro por qué a mi alrededor nacen los abismos, desde el origen fui mancillado por la felicidad, por su cima inclemente.

Las invasoras restas del recuerdo. La pugna de la raíz. La antigüedad del silencio . . .

No pongo flores en el cementerio del sueño, pero continúo a pesar de todas las arenas movedizas del espíritu.

La culpa que no te deja partir es el amor.

Y ahora la niebla, la lluvia, la ausencia . . .

El desequilibrio llamado belleza, la terrible orfandad de lo sagrado, la rosa ígnea que me guía en la desesperación . . .

Sé que el camino terminará por encontrarme.

Como todo lo que se hace visible para morir.
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RESTITUTIONS

I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.

Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And even though I ignore that around me abysses are born, I was originally blemished by happiness, by its inclement summit.

The invading substractions of memory. The struggle of the root. The antiquity of silence . . .

I don’t put flowers in the cemetery of dreams, but I go on in spite of all the quicksands of the spirit.

The guilt that does not allow you to leave is love.

And now fog, rain, absence . . .

The unbalance called beauty, the terrible abandonment of the sacred, the igneous rose guiding me in desperation . . .

I know the path will end up finding me.

As all that becomes visible to die.

RESTITUTIONS

I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.

Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And even though I ignore that around me abysses are born, I was originally blemished by happiness, by its inclement summit.

The invading substractions of memory. The struggle of the root. The antiquity of silence . . .

I don’t put flowers in the cemetery of dreams, but I go on in spite of all the quicksands of the spirit.

The guilt that does not allow you to leave is love.

And now fog, rain, absence . . .

The unbalance called beauty, the terrible abandonment of the sacred, the igneous rose guiding me in desperation . . .

I know the path will end up finding me.

As all that becomes visible to die.
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