Poem
Felipe García Quintero
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead. Ilook through the broken glass of the window at a battle of maimed
butterflies in the burnt sky of my five years.
I talk with the weather beaten trees that disappear in my eyes; the
ones that have no road, with the birds which already are memories
of the wind.
I too don’t know what land this is.
(1994)
© Translation: 2005, Nicolás Suescún
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead
Viajo en un tren de veintiún vagones conducido por todos mis
muertos. Miro a través del cristal roto de la ventana una batalla de
mariposas mutiladas por el cielo quemado de mis cinco años.
Converso con los árboles de la intemperie que desaparecen en
mis ojos; los que no tienen camino, con los pájaros que son ya
recuerdos del viento.
Yo tampoco sé qué tierra es ésta
(1994)
muertos. Miro a través del cristal roto de la ventana una batalla de
mariposas mutiladas por el cielo quemado de mis cinco años.
Converso con los árboles de la intemperie que desaparecen en
mis ojos; los que no tienen camino, con los pájaros que son ya
recuerdos del viento.
Yo tampoco sé qué tierra es ésta
(1994)
© 1995, Felipe García Quintero
From: vida de nadie
Publisher: Altorrey Editorial, Madrid
From: vida de nadie
Publisher: Altorrey Editorial, Madrid
Poems
Poems of Felipe García Quintero
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I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead. Ilook through the broken glass of the window at a battle of maimed
butterflies in the burnt sky of my five years.
I talk with the weather beaten trees that disappear in my eyes; the
ones that have no road, with the birds which already are memories
of the wind.
I too don’t know what land this is.
(1994)
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
From: vida de nadie
From: vida de nadie
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead
I travel in a train of twenty-one coaches driven by all my dead. Ilook through the broken glass of the window at a battle of maimed
butterflies in the burnt sky of my five years.
I talk with the weather beaten trees that disappear in my eyes; the
ones that have no road, with the birds which already are memories
of the wind.
I too don’t know what land this is.
(1994)
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
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