Poem
Álvaro Miranda
DAY OF THE ARROW THAT GOES THROUGH THE TREE-TOPS
You, Ihilla, who knows how to thread fire between your fingernails and has mixed the idea of wiping out the web of the cobweb with colors, whisper with us the growl of ancient beasts returning, for you must know that the hammerhead shark and the white dogfish hold the inexistence of the mother country in our hearts.Perhaps you know that the flip-flopping of the past, the presence of these mouths that chewed laughter between milk teeth, is hopeless? Coarse beauty and the despair of beasts will come together in times to come, eat all the leftovers with times past .
You, Ihilla, who have seen the gods dressing us with time, know that a light wind makes us eager to please.
Our words, goddess, will be written in the lintel of the bastions, between the testicles of the tiger, in that mixture of humidity and fire that the minor dreams of ants squandering the wind arrive at.
Be glad, Ihilla: in the immensity of rottenness a single stone curlew will trample those who feign to extol themselves.
© Translation: 2006, Nicolás Suescún
DIA DE LA FLECHA QUE CRUZA LAS COPAS DE LOS ÁRBOLES
DIA DE LA FLECHA QUE CRUZA LAS COPAS DE LOS ÁRBOLES
Tú Ihilla, que sabes ensartar entre tus uñas el fuego y que has amalgamado de colores la idea de aniquilar la tela de las telarañas, susurra con nosotros el gruñido de antiguas bestias que regresan, porque has de saber que el pez martillo y el escualo blanco tienen en nuestros corazones la inexistencia de la patria.¿Sabes acaso que es irremediable el chancleteo del pasado, la presencia de esas bocas que machacaron la risa entre dientes de leche? La burda belleza y la desesperanza de las bestias caminarán a la par del tiempo que ha llegado, para comer con el ayer todos los despojos.
Tú, Ihilla, que has visto a los dioses revestirnos de tiempo, sabes que un aire ligero nos torna complacientes.
Nuestras palabras, diosa, se colocarán en el umbral de los bastiones, entre los testículos del tigre, entre esa mezcla de humedad y fuego donde llegan los sueños menores de los hormigas que dilapidan el viento.
Regocíjate, Ihilla: en la inmensidad de la podredumbre un sencillo alcaraván revolcará a los seres que simulan engrandecimiento.
© 1996, Álvaro Miranda
From: Simulación de un reino
Publisher: Thomas de Quincey Editores, Bogotá
From: Simulación de un reino
Publisher: Thomas de Quincey Editores, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Álvaro Miranda
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DAY OF THE ARROW THAT GOES THROUGH THE TREE-TOPS
You, Ihilla, who knows how to thread fire between your fingernails and has mixed the idea of wiping out the web of the cobweb with colors, whisper with us the growl of ancient beasts returning, for you must know that the hammerhead shark and the white dogfish hold the inexistence of the mother country in our hearts.Perhaps you know that the flip-flopping of the past, the presence of these mouths that chewed laughter between milk teeth, is hopeless? Coarse beauty and the despair of beasts will come together in times to come, eat all the leftovers with times past .
You, Ihilla, who have seen the gods dressing us with time, know that a light wind makes us eager to please.
Our words, goddess, will be written in the lintel of the bastions, between the testicles of the tiger, in that mixture of humidity and fire that the minor dreams of ants squandering the wind arrive at.
Be glad, Ihilla: in the immensity of rottenness a single stone curlew will trample those who feign to extol themselves.
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
From: Simulación de un reino
From: Simulación de un reino
DAY OF THE ARROW THAT GOES THROUGH THE TREE-TOPS
You, Ihilla, who knows how to thread fire between your fingernails and has mixed the idea of wiping out the web of the cobweb with colors, whisper with us the growl of ancient beasts returning, for you must know that the hammerhead shark and the white dogfish hold the inexistence of the mother country in our hearts.Perhaps you know that the flip-flopping of the past, the presence of these mouths that chewed laughter between milk teeth, is hopeless? Coarse beauty and the despair of beasts will come together in times to come, eat all the leftovers with times past .
You, Ihilla, who have seen the gods dressing us with time, know that a light wind makes us eager to please.
Our words, goddess, will be written in the lintel of the bastions, between the testicles of the tiger, in that mixture of humidity and fire that the minor dreams of ants squandering the wind arrive at.
Be glad, Ihilla: in the immensity of rottenness a single stone curlew will trample those who feign to extol themselves.
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
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