Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Fredy Chicangana

SHE

To listen to moans, wails and claims there’s time enough
— poetry does not wait —
she’s the pitcher of warm water in the cold night,
a shooting star in the black sky
she comes like the wind, shaking memory,
climbing by the flow of blood
until she spills the fountain of florid roses.

Now, there is no time to die in a bedroom
driving away flies that come in through the window
or drying tears that seem eternal.

Hoards of butterflies come from her mouth
and there are only her messengers
she — the adored poetry —, present without hurting,
who does not keep us waiting
and whom we don’t want to go away.

ELLA

ELLA

Para escuchar lamentos, quejas y reclamos sobra tiempo
— la poesía no espera —,
ella es cántaro de agua tibia en noche fría,
estrella fugaz en cielo negro
llega como el viento, sacudiendo la memoria,
trepando por los caudales de la sangre
hasta derramar la fuente de floridas rosas.

Ahora, no hay tiempo para morir entre una alcoba
espantando moscas que atraviesan la ventana
ni secando lágrimas que parecen eternas.

De la boca salen mariposas en racimo
y solo mensajeros hay
de ella — la adorada poesía —, que esta presente sin herir
que no da espera
y que no queremos que se vaya.
Close

SHE

To listen to moans, wails and claims there’s time enough
— poetry does not wait —
she’s the pitcher of warm water in the cold night,
a shooting star in the black sky
she comes like the wind, shaking memory,
climbing by the flow of blood
until she spills the fountain of florid roses.

Now, there is no time to die in a bedroom
driving away flies that come in through the window
or drying tears that seem eternal.

Hoards of butterflies come from her mouth
and there are only her messengers
she — the adored poetry —, present without hurting,
who does not keep us waiting
and whom we don’t want to go away.

SHE

To listen to moans, wails and claims there’s time enough
— poetry does not wait —
she’s the pitcher of warm water in the cold night,
a shooting star in the black sky
she comes like the wind, shaking memory,
climbing by the flow of blood
until she spills the fountain of florid roses.

Now, there is no time to die in a bedroom
driving away flies that come in through the window
or drying tears that seem eternal.

Hoards of butterflies come from her mouth
and there are only her messengers
she — the adored poetry —, present without hurting,
who does not keep us waiting
and whom we don’t want to go away.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère