Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Felipe García Quintero

My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth

       My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth.

       My house, like the stone, does not possess rafters or
foundation, only a clenched hand holds it up.

      I have built this house taking away bricks and surrendering
my bones to the remaining emptiness.

       The house is as dark as my voice in its corridors.

      I live in the house in which I walk. The one I stalk and
pursues me like a maggot after sick flesh.

       At each cry it rises up; with each silence I destroy it.

(1996)

My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth

    Mi casa, como el desierto, no tiene techo ni puerta, sólo boca.

    Mi casa, como la piedra, no posee vigas ni cimientos, sólo
una mano empuñada la sostiene.

    Esta casa la he construido quitando ladrillos y entregando mis
huesos al vacío que resta.

    La casa es oscura como mi voz en sus corredores.

    Vivo en la casa que camino. La que acecho y me persigue
como el gusano tras la carne enferma.

    A cada grito se levanta; con cada silencio la destruyo

(1996)
Close

My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth

       My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth.

       My house, like the stone, does not possess rafters or
foundation, only a clenched hand holds it up.

      I have built this house taking away bricks and surrendering
my bones to the remaining emptiness.

       The house is as dark as my voice in its corridors.

      I live in the house in which I walk. The one I stalk and
pursues me like a maggot after sick flesh.

       At each cry it rises up; with each silence I destroy it.

(1996)

My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth

       My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth.

       My house, like the stone, does not possess rafters or
foundation, only a clenched hand holds it up.

      I have built this house taking away bricks and surrendering
my bones to the remaining emptiness.

       The house is as dark as my voice in its corridors.

      I live in the house in which I walk. The one I stalk and
pursues me like a maggot after sick flesh.

       At each cry it rises up; with each silence I destroy it.

(1996)
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