Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Vito Apüshana (Miguel Ángel López)

MALUAYAN

On the way to Maluayan fear caught up with us . . .
we received it: it was all silence, invisible,
and it smelled of smoked calabash.

It embraced us unawares
and made us piss under the Mapuua tree.

Then came the dream, and the voices of the dead spoke to us about finding the footprints
of the first wayfarers on earth in the sweaty steps of today;
they spoke to us about listening to the soft music enclosed
in the complaints we muttered on the path.

Since then we see fear in each curve,
taking leave of us . . . abandoning us to our fate.

MALUAYAN

MALUAYAN

Camino a Maluayan nos alcanzó el miedo . . .
lo recibimos: era todo silencio, invisible
y con olor a totumo ahumado.

Nos abrazó sin darnos cuenta
y nos puso a orinar bajo un árbol Mapuua.

Luego vino el sueño y las voces de los muertos nos hablaron de encontrar las huellas
de los primeros caminantes de la Tierra . . . en los pasos sudorosos de hoy;
nos hablaron de escuchar la leve música contenida
en las quejas que soltamos en el sendero.

Desde entonces vemos al miedo, en cada curva,
despidiéndonos . . . abandonándonos a nuestra suerte.
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MALUAYAN

On the way to Maluayan fear caught up with us . . .
we received it: it was all silence, invisible,
and it smelled of smoked calabash.

It embraced us unawares
and made us piss under the Mapuua tree.

Then came the dream, and the voices of the dead spoke to us about finding the footprints
of the first wayfarers on earth in the sweaty steps of today;
they spoke to us about listening to the soft music enclosed
in the complaints we muttered on the path.

Since then we see fear in each curve,
taking leave of us . . . abandoning us to our fate.

MALUAYAN

On the way to Maluayan fear caught up with us . . .
we received it: it was all silence, invisible,
and it smelled of smoked calabash.

It embraced us unawares
and made us piss under the Mapuua tree.

Then came the dream, and the voices of the dead spoke to us about finding the footprints
of the first wayfarers on earth in the sweaty steps of today;
they spoke to us about listening to the soft music enclosed
in the complaints we muttered on the path.

Since then we see fear in each curve,
taking leave of us . . . abandoning us to our fate.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère