Poem
Fernando Denis
Enigma for Seven Colors
The dream is the dream of hexameters, where the seaBurns with more felicity than all the seas of Europe,
It is the dream of the house in ruins and its most ancient birds:
Words.
The words are in my eyes
They are this wood that seems a mirror.
Over me there is a sky like the sky of the Iliad.
Through the storm I hear the voices of magicians,
The voices of the sand of the desert,
The voices that set fire to the sword,
And in the old house burnt by the sunsets
I decipher the enigma of the seven colors
In a room full of shadows.
I listen to the magicians
And words are blue in my eyes.
Merlin sleeps by the tree of fire.
His dream. He keeps alive the flames.
I see the most ancient light in the world
Sliding towards me to see its face.
Slowly the most ancient light dissolves its metaphors
On the sea.
The maiden of colors crosses the garden of the peacocks
And opens all its doors,
Then a tiger enters the dream.
The magicians travel.
Their fables are narrated by the winds
In ancient booklets the color of the sand of the desert.
After they go, everything stays in their view.
Night comes,
And then a man goes mad, or dies for the color blue.
© Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún
Enigma para siete colores
Enigma para siete colores
El sueño es el sueño de los hexámetros, donde el marArde con más felicidad que todos los mares de Europa.
Es el sueño de la casa en ruinas y sus pájaros más antiguos:
Las palabras.
Las palabras están en mis ojos.
Son este bosque que parece un espejo.
Sobre mí hay un cielo parecido al cielo de la Ilíada.
A través de la tormenta escucho las voces de los magos.
Las voces de la arena del desierto.
Las voces que encienden los ojos de la espada,
Y en la vieja casa quemada por crepúsculos
Descifran el enigma de los siete colores
En un cuarto en sombras.
Escucho a los magos
Y son azules las palabras en mis ojos.
Merlín duerme junto al árbol de fuego. Su sueño
Mantiene vivas las llamas.
Veo la luz más antigua del mundo deslizándose
Para ver su rostro.
Lentamente la luz más antigua disuelve sobre el mar
Sus metáforas.
La doncella de los colores atraviesa el jardín de los pavos reales
Y abre todas las puertas,
Entonces el tigre entra en su sueño.
Los magos viajan.
Sus fábulas son narradas por los vientos
En antiguos cuadernos del color de las arenas.
Después que se van qué vacía queda la mirada.
Llega la noche
Y entonces un hombre enloquece o muere por el color azul.
© 2007, Fernando Denis
From: El vino rojo de las sílabas
Publisher: Editorial La Serpiente Emplumada, Tortuga Ediciones, Bogotá
From: El vino rojo de las sílabas
Publisher: Editorial La Serpiente Emplumada, Tortuga Ediciones, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Fernando Denis
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Enigma for Seven Colors
The dream is the dream of hexameters, where the seaBurns with more felicity than all the seas of Europe,
It is the dream of the house in ruins and its most ancient birds:
Words.
The words are in my eyes
They are this wood that seems a mirror.
Over me there is a sky like the sky of the Iliad.
Through the storm I hear the voices of magicians,
The voices of the sand of the desert,
The voices that set fire to the sword,
And in the old house burnt by the sunsets
I decipher the enigma of the seven colors
In a room full of shadows.
I listen to the magicians
And words are blue in my eyes.
Merlin sleeps by the tree of fire.
His dream. He keeps alive the flames.
I see the most ancient light in the world
Sliding towards me to see its face.
Slowly the most ancient light dissolves its metaphors
On the sea.
The maiden of colors crosses the garden of the peacocks
And opens all its doors,
Then a tiger enters the dream.
The magicians travel.
Their fables are narrated by the winds
In ancient booklets the color of the sand of the desert.
After they go, everything stays in their view.
Night comes,
And then a man goes mad, or dies for the color blue.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
From: El vino rojo de las sílabas
From: El vino rojo de las sílabas
Enigma for Seven Colors
The dream is the dream of hexameters, where the seaBurns with more felicity than all the seas of Europe,
It is the dream of the house in ruins and its most ancient birds:
Words.
The words are in my eyes
They are this wood that seems a mirror.
Over me there is a sky like the sky of the Iliad.
Through the storm I hear the voices of magicians,
The voices of the sand of the desert,
The voices that set fire to the sword,
And in the old house burnt by the sunsets
I decipher the enigma of the seven colors
In a room full of shadows.
I listen to the magicians
And words are blue in my eyes.
Merlin sleeps by the tree of fire.
His dream. He keeps alive the flames.
I see the most ancient light in the world
Sliding towards me to see its face.
Slowly the most ancient light dissolves its metaphors
On the sea.
The maiden of colors crosses the garden of the peacocks
And opens all its doors,
Then a tiger enters the dream.
The magicians travel.
Their fables are narrated by the winds
In ancient booklets the color of the sand of the desert.
After they go, everything stays in their view.
Night comes,
And then a man goes mad, or dies for the color blue.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
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