Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Juan Cristóbal Romero

Rhythm

What harm could there be in following
the 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.

Ritmo

Ritmo

Qué mal puede haber en seguir
el 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.
Close

Rhythm

What harm could there be in following
the 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.

Rhythm

What harm could there be in following
the 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.
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