Poem
Gabriel Jaime Franco
THE MEMORABLE EARTH (FRAGMENT IV)
Did I speak some day?Did I speak words spun in such a way that those who travelled with me turned their eyes
towards me, pricked up their ears?
That, at least, they would say among themselves: “Do you understand what he’s saying? Of
what dream, of what universe does he speak to us with words that are also ours?”
Nothing. Nobody. None of them turned their eyes.
And I turned my eyes to my brute heart, to my animal blood alive and warm in its living
torrent!
Brute among the brutes, but with an alert eye; nor was my heart new, nor more eloquent
than the dead leaf lying damp in the humus, giving its small portion of light, its thin veins
that were returning to the slow torrent of the sap.
A voice was there, I knew, under its magnificent humility abandoned in the flow of living things.
And I read on the leaf and on its tenuous sieve of nerves the high metaphor of living things.
I never did have a voice, I also knew that. Only words. And ears, wonderful ears, for the echo.
And the dead leaf leads me to the certainty of an irremediable solitude, for I have no voice
to speak of all that moves in me like the mute sap.
© Translation: 2004, Nicolás Suescún
La tierra memorable (fragmento IV)
La tierra memorable (fragmento IV)
¿Hablé un día?¿Pronuncié palabras hiladas de tal modo que aquellos que viajaban conmigo volvieran los
ojos, aguzaran sus oídos?
Que, al menos, se dijeran entre sí: “Entiendes lo que dice? ¿De qué sueño, de qué universo
nos habla con palabras que también son nuestras?”
Nada. Nadie. Ninguno volvió sus ojos.
¡Y yo volví los míos sobre mi corazón de bruto, hacia mi sangre animal viva y cálida en su
torrente vivo!
Bruto entre los brutos, pero con un ojo alerta, tampoco era nuevo mi corazón, ni más
elocuente que la hoja muerta reposada de humedad entre el mantillo, donando su pequeña
porción de luz, su delgada nervadura que volvía al torrente lento de la savia.
Una voz había allí, lo supe, bajo su magnífica humildad abandonada al flujo de lo vivo.
Y yo leí sobre la hoja y su tenue cedazo de nervios la alta metáfora de lo viviente.
Nunca tuve voz, también lo supe. Sólo palabras. Y oídos, maravillosos oídos para el eco.
Y la hoja muerta me conduce a la certeza de una soledad irremediable, pues yo no tengo
voz para decirte todo aquello que en mí se mueve como una savia muda.
© 2004, Gabriel Jaime Franco
From: La tierra memorable
Publisher: Unpublished, Medellín
From: La tierra memorable
Publisher: Unpublished, Medellín
Poems
Poems of Gabriel Jaime Franco
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THE MEMORABLE EARTH (FRAGMENT IV)
Did I speak some day?Did I speak words spun in such a way that those who travelled with me turned their eyes
towards me, pricked up their ears?
That, at least, they would say among themselves: “Do you understand what he’s saying? Of
what dream, of what universe does he speak to us with words that are also ours?”
Nothing. Nobody. None of them turned their eyes.
And I turned my eyes to my brute heart, to my animal blood alive and warm in its living
torrent!
Brute among the brutes, but with an alert eye; nor was my heart new, nor more eloquent
than the dead leaf lying damp in the humus, giving its small portion of light, its thin veins
that were returning to the slow torrent of the sap.
A voice was there, I knew, under its magnificent humility abandoned in the flow of living things.
And I read on the leaf and on its tenuous sieve of nerves the high metaphor of living things.
I never did have a voice, I also knew that. Only words. And ears, wonderful ears, for the echo.
And the dead leaf leads me to the certainty of an irremediable solitude, for I have no voice
to speak of all that moves in me like the mute sap.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
From: La tierra memorable
From: La tierra memorable
THE MEMORABLE EARTH (FRAGMENT IV)
Did I speak some day?Did I speak words spun in such a way that those who travelled with me turned their eyes
towards me, pricked up their ears?
That, at least, they would say among themselves: “Do you understand what he’s saying? Of
what dream, of what universe does he speak to us with words that are also ours?”
Nothing. Nobody. None of them turned their eyes.
And I turned my eyes to my brute heart, to my animal blood alive and warm in its living
torrent!
Brute among the brutes, but with an alert eye; nor was my heart new, nor more eloquent
than the dead leaf lying damp in the humus, giving its small portion of light, its thin veins
that were returning to the slow torrent of the sap.
A voice was there, I knew, under its magnificent humility abandoned in the flow of living things.
And I read on the leaf and on its tenuous sieve of nerves the high metaphor of living things.
I never did have a voice, I also knew that. Only words. And ears, wonderful ears, for the echo.
And the dead leaf leads me to the certainty of an irremediable solitude, for I have no voice
to speak of all that moves in me like the mute sap.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
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