Poem
Armando Romero
THE SUPPER
The monks run at the sound of the dinner belltheir habits raised as are their appetites.
We too run, spurred on by hunger
and a talkative monk.
The refectory of wooden benches and tables carved away by time
resounds with the banging down of pewter plates.
The abbot quickly enters, preceded by his court.
He blesses the bread while the monk whose
turn it is to read from the Scriptures soars to the pulpit.
The monk spews out psalms in Greek to the rhythm
of the abbot' s eating, his devouring.
And like a chorus of violins reminiscent of muffled bells
the arms, hands, and spoons of the monks accompany him.
All at once, all is still and silent.
The abbot has decided to finish eating.
“Everyone must leave,” says an old monk,
his eyes resting on our full plates,
“supper is over.”
In the night of the monastery hunger accompanies
the pilgrimage of the soul.
LA CENA
LA CENA
Al campanazo de la cena corren los monjes,levantados los hábitos como el apetito.
Corremos nosotros azuzados por el hambre
y un monje parlanchín.
El refectorio de bancos y mesas de madera
labrada por los años
resuena al tiro de los platos de peltre.
Rápido entra el abad precedido de su corte.
Bendice la sopa mientras el monje al turno
de leer las escrituras vuela al púlpito.
Lee el monje a borbotones griegos sus salmos
al compás de los gestos del abad comiendo,
devorando.
Y como un coro de violines que resuenan como sordas
campanas,
los brazos, las manos y las cucharas de los monjes
lo acompañan.
De pronto todo es quietud y silencio.
El abad ha decidido terminar de comer.
“Todo el mundo debe salir, dice un viejo monje
con la vista puesta en nuestros platos llenos,
la cena ha terminado.”
En la noche del monasterio el hambre acompaña
el peregrinar del espíritu.
Poems
Poems of Armando Romero
Close
THE SUPPER
The monks run at the sound of the dinner belltheir habits raised as are their appetites.
We too run, spurred on by hunger
and a talkative monk.
The refectory of wooden benches and tables carved away by time
resounds with the banging down of pewter plates.
The abbot quickly enters, preceded by his court.
He blesses the bread while the monk whose
turn it is to read from the Scriptures soars to the pulpit.
The monk spews out psalms in Greek to the rhythm
of the abbot' s eating, his devouring.
And like a chorus of violins reminiscent of muffled bells
the arms, hands, and spoons of the monks accompany him.
All at once, all is still and silent.
The abbot has decided to finish eating.
“Everyone must leave,” says an old monk,
his eyes resting on our full plates,
“supper is over.”
In the night of the monastery hunger accompanies
the pilgrimage of the soul.
THE SUPPER
The monks run at the sound of the dinner belltheir habits raised as are their appetites.
We too run, spurred on by hunger
and a talkative monk.
The refectory of wooden benches and tables carved away by time
resounds with the banging down of pewter plates.
The abbot quickly enters, preceded by his court.
He blesses the bread while the monk whose
turn it is to read from the Scriptures soars to the pulpit.
The monk spews out psalms in Greek to the rhythm
of the abbot' s eating, his devouring.
And like a chorus of violins reminiscent of muffled bells
the arms, hands, and spoons of the monks accompany him.
All at once, all is still and silent.
The abbot has decided to finish eating.
“Everyone must leave,” says an old monk,
his eyes resting on our full plates,
“supper is over.”
In the night of the monastery hunger accompanies
the pilgrimage of the soul.
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