Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Henry Luque

IN THE GOBI DESERT

In the Gobi desert,
around the dying place of the dragons,
the skeleton of a bison was found
with its head toward the sky
and its shadow fattened by a vast sore.

Even though its cow lay
under the skin of furtive crags,
the smell of its mushy hair reached her.
It fertilized the seed
that fed generations.
From the appalled matter of its dream
sprouted the oak of rocky bark
that not even the millenary typhoons can bend.

In nights when the moon
changes course,
the dead bison snorts uproariously,
lurching upward
by the radiance of primitive longings.

IN THE GOBI DESERT

En el desierto de Gobi
alrededor del moridero de los dragones,
fue hallado el esqueleto de un bisonte
con la testa hacia cielo
y su sombra engordada por una llaga vastísima.

Aunque su hembra yacía
bajo la piel de furtivos peñascos,
le llegaba el olor de su babosa pelambre.
Fecundó la semilla
que nutrió a generaciones.
De la aterrada materia de su sueños
brotó el roble de tez rocosa
que no doblan ni los tifones milenarios.

En noches en que la luna
cambia de destino,
el muerto bisonte bufa con estruendo,
encabritado
por el resplandor de nostalgias primitivas.
Close

IN THE GOBI DESERT

In the Gobi desert,
around the dying place of the dragons,
the skeleton of a bison was found
with its head toward the sky
and its shadow fattened by a vast sore.

Even though its cow lay
under the skin of furtive crags,
the smell of its mushy hair reached her.
It fertilized the seed
that fed generations.
From the appalled matter of its dream
sprouted the oak of rocky bark
that not even the millenary typhoons can bend.

In nights when the moon
changes course,
the dead bison snorts uproariously,
lurching upward
by the radiance of primitive longings.

IN THE GOBI DESERT

In the Gobi desert,
around the dying place of the dragons,
the skeleton of a bison was found
with its head toward the sky
and its shadow fattened by a vast sore.

Even though its cow lay
under the skin of furtive crags,
the smell of its mushy hair reached her.
It fertilized the seed
that fed generations.
From the appalled matter of its dream
sprouted the oak of rocky bark
that not even the millenary typhoons can bend.

In nights when the moon
changes course,
the dead bison snorts uproariously,
lurching upward
by the radiance of primitive longings.
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