Poem
Antonio Gamoneda
YOU HEAR the destruction of wood
YOU HEAR the destruction of wood (the blind termites in its veins), you see needles and wardrobes full of shadow.It is the mortal nap. So much childhood under the eyelids!
Like the sad horsefly of summer, you take from your face, your mother’s black serge. You will
wake in oblivion.
© Translation: 2010, Donald Wellman
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
JE HOORT de vernietiging van het hout
JE HOORT de vernietiging van het hout (de blinde termieten in zijn aders), je ziet water en kasten vol schaduw.Het is de dodelijke siësta. Zoveel kindertijd onder de oogleden!
Zoals de droevige paardenvlieg in de zomer, schuif je de zwarte serge van je moeder van je gelaat. Je zal
ontwaken in vergeten.
© Vertaling: 2010, Bart Vonck
OYES la destrucción de la madera (los termes ciegos en sus venas), ves las agujas y los armarios llenos de sombra.
Es la siesta mortal. ¡Cuánta niñez bajo los párpados!
Como al tábano triste en el verano, apartas de tu rostro la sarga negra de tu madre. Vas
a despertar en el olvido.
Es la siesta mortal. ¡Cuánta niñez bajo los párpados!
Como al tábano triste en el verano, apartas de tu rostro la sarga negra de tu madre. Vas
a despertar en el olvido.
© 2005, Antonio Gamoneda
From: Libro del frío
Publisher: Uitgeverij P, Leuven
From: Libro del frío
Publisher: Uitgeverij P, Leuven
Poems
Poems of Antonio Gamoneda
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YOU HEAR the destruction of wood
YOU HEAR the destruction of wood (the blind termites in its veins), you see needles and wardrobes full of shadow.It is the mortal nap. So much childhood under the eyelids!
Like the sad horsefly of summer, you take from your face, your mother’s black serge. You will
wake in oblivion.
© 2010, Donald Wellman
From: Libro del frío
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Leuven
From: Libro del frío
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Leuven
YOU HEAR the destruction of wood
YOU HEAR the destruction of wood (the blind termites in its veins), you see needles and wardrobes full of shadow.It is the mortal nap. So much childhood under the eyelids!
Like the sad horsefly of summer, you take from your face, your mother’s black serge. You will
wake in oblivion.
© 2010, Donald Wellman
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
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