Poem
Juan Cristóbal Romero
Rhythm
What harm could there be in followingthe hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping with my feet
the beat of the rain pounding puddles.
What, in turning noise into beat,
blinking eyelids into tambourines.
Carrying with my feet
the tired passage of secret things.
Like when the cats were
one single ruckus overhead.
The rooftiles groaned like
pins of a broken piano.
What harm will there be in following the rhythm
of things. The form of the curve
the oat fields take
when the wind caresses their back.
What, in turning noise into beat,
fluttering eyelashes into tambourines.
Sealing with soft lips the slow
passage of secret things.
© Translation: 2015, Erin Goodman
Ritmo
Ritmo
Qué mal puede haber en seguirel ritmo oculto de las cosas.
Qué mal en marcar con los pies
el golpe de lluvia en las pozas.
Qué en hacer del ruido compás,
del pestañeo pandereta.
Llevar con los pies el cansado
paso de las cosas secretas.
Como cuando los gatos fueron
un solo alboroto en el techo.
Se quejaban las tejas como
clavijas de un piano deshecho.
Qué mal habrá en seguir el ritmo
de las cosas. La forma como
se curvan los campos de avena
cuando el viento les soba el lomo.
Qué en hacer del ruido compás,
de los párpados pandereta.
Sellar con los labios el suave
paso de las cosas secretas.
© 2003, Juan Cristóbal Romero
From: Marulla
Publisher: Ediciones Tácitas, Santiago, Chile
From: Marulla
Publisher: Ediciones Tácitas, Santiago, Chile
Poems
Poems of Juan Cristóbal Romero
Close
Rhythm
What harm could there be in followingthe hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping with my feet
the beat of the rain pounding puddles.
What, in turning noise into beat,
blinking eyelids into tambourines.
Carrying with my feet
the tired passage of secret things.
Like when the cats were
one single ruckus overhead.
The rooftiles groaned like
pins of a broken piano.
What harm will there be in following the rhythm
of things. The form of the curve
the oat fields take
when the wind caresses their back.
What, in turning noise into beat,
fluttering eyelashes into tambourines.
Sealing with soft lips the slow
passage of secret things.
© 2015, Erin Goodman
From: Marulla
From: Marulla
Rhythm
What harm could there be in followingthe hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping with my feet
the beat of the rain pounding puddles.
What, in turning noise into beat,
blinking eyelids into tambourines.
Carrying with my feet
the tired passage of secret things.
Like when the cats were
one single ruckus overhead.
The rooftiles groaned like
pins of a broken piano.
What harm will there be in following the rhythm
of things. The form of the curve
the oat fields take
when the wind caresses their back.
What, in turning noise into beat,
fluttering eyelashes into tambourines.
Sealing with soft lips the slow
passage of secret things.
© 2015, Erin Goodman
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