Poem
Pedro Arturo Estrada
COUNTRY OF SILENCE
Someone dares to ask after him who has not returned.And the shadows answer: nothing, nobody, no one.
Someone wanders sniffing the last steps,
the moans he left in the air, the voices that still
creep in under the doors. Someone
under the damp sheets of midnight
can’t get to sleep, waits until the high
desolation of dawn for that news, that now, that enough,
that final cry which will reestablish the course of days
and unleash the voice over the void
dug by years of silence
and fear.
© Translation: 2010, Laura Chalar
PAÍS DE SILENCIO
PAÍS DE SILENCIO
Alguien se atreve a preguntar por el que no ha vuelto.Y las sombras le contestan: nada, nadie, ninguno.
Alguien deambula husmeando los últimos pasos,
los ayes que dejó en el aire, las voces que aún
se cuelan por debajo de las puertas. Alguien
bajo las sábanas húmedas de la medianoche
no logra conciliar el sueño, espera hasta la alta
desolación del alba esa noticia, ese ya, ese basta,
ese grito final que restablezca el curso de los días
y desate la voz sobre el vacío
excavado por años de silencio
y miedo.
© 2006, Pedro Arturo Estrada
From: Oscura edad y otros poemas
Publisher: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Medellín
From: Oscura edad y otros poemas
Publisher: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Medellín
Poems
Poems of Pedro Arturo Estrada
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COUNTRY OF SILENCE
Someone dares to ask after him who has not returned.And the shadows answer: nothing, nobody, no one.
Someone wanders sniffing the last steps,
the moans he left in the air, the voices that still
creep in under the doors. Someone
under the damp sheets of midnight
can’t get to sleep, waits until the high
desolation of dawn for that news, that now, that enough,
that final cry which will reestablish the course of days
and unleash the voice over the void
dug by years of silence
and fear.
© 2010, Laura Chalar
From: Oscura edad y otros poemas
From: Oscura edad y otros poemas
COUNTRY OF SILENCE
Someone dares to ask after him who has not returned.And the shadows answer: nothing, nobody, no one.
Someone wanders sniffing the last steps,
the moans he left in the air, the voices that still
creep in under the doors. Someone
under the damp sheets of midnight
can’t get to sleep, waits until the high
desolation of dawn for that news, that now, that enough,
that final cry which will reestablish the course of days
and unleash the voice over the void
dug by years of silence
and fear.
© 2010, Laura Chalar
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