Poem
Andrea Cote
WEEPING
María,I speak about the mountains where life grows slowly
those that do not exist in my port of light,
where everything is desert and ashes
and your smile is a tarnished gesture.
There January is the month of the unburied dead
and the land of the first corpse.
María,
don’t you remember?
don’t you see anything?
There our voices are scorched
as our skin
and our heels get burned
for not wanting to know
about the burned up houses.
I speak María
about this land which is the thirst I live with
and the bed in which life is buried.
Think María
that this is not living
and that life is any other thing that exists,
damp in the ports where water does flower,
and where there is not a bonfire in each stone.
Remember, María,
that we are
food for dogs and birds,
we are parched up men,
empty barks
of what we used to be.
What are you made of, my child?
Why do you think you can sew the crack in the landscape
with the thread of your voice?
if this land is a wound that bleeds
in you and in me
and in all the things
made of ashes.
In our land
the raven looks at us with your eyes
and the flowers wilt
out of hatred of us
and the earth opens up holes
to force us to die.
© Translation: 2005, Nicolás Suescún
LLANTO
LLANTO
María,hablo de las montañas en que la vida crece lenta
aquellas que no existen en mi puerto de luz,
donde todo es desierto y ceniza
y es tu sonrisa gesto deslucido.
Allí es enero el mes de los muertos insepultos
y la tierra es el primer cadáver.
María
¿No recuerdas?
¿No ves nada?
Allí nuestras voces son desecas
como nuestra piel
y se nos queman los talones
por no querer saber de las casas incendiadas.
Hablo María
de esta tierra que es la sed que vivo
y el lecho en que la vida está enterrada.
Piensa María
en que esto no es vivir
y la vida es cualquier otra cosa que existe
húmeda en los puertos donde el agua sí florece,
y no es hoguera cada piedra.
Acuérdate María,
que somos
pasto de perros y de aves,
somos hombres calcinados,
cortezas vacías
de lo que éramos antes.
¿De qué esta hecha?, niña mía,
¿Por qué crees que puedes coserle la grieta al paisaje
con el hilo de tu voz?,
cuando esta tierra es una herida que sangra
en tí y en mí
y en todas las cosas
hechas de ceniza.
En nuestra tierra,
los cuervos lo miran a uno con tus ojos
y las flores se marchitan
por odio hacia nosotros
y la tierra abre agujeros
para obligarnos a morir.
© 2002, Andrea Cote Botero
From: Puerto calcinado
Publisher: Universidad Externado de Colombia, Bogotá
From: Puerto calcinado
Publisher: Universidad Externado de Colombia, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Andrea Cote
Close
WEEPING
María,I speak about the mountains where life grows slowly
those that do not exist in my port of light,
where everything is desert and ashes
and your smile is a tarnished gesture.
There January is the month of the unburied dead
and the land of the first corpse.
María,
don’t you remember?
don’t you see anything?
There our voices are scorched
as our skin
and our heels get burned
for not wanting to know
about the burned up houses.
I speak María
about this land which is the thirst I live with
and the bed in which life is buried.
Think María
that this is not living
and that life is any other thing that exists,
damp in the ports where water does flower,
and where there is not a bonfire in each stone.
Remember, María,
that we are
food for dogs and birds,
we are parched up men,
empty barks
of what we used to be.
What are you made of, my child?
Why do you think you can sew the crack in the landscape
with the thread of your voice?
if this land is a wound that bleeds
in you and in me
and in all the things
made of ashes.
In our land
the raven looks at us with your eyes
and the flowers wilt
out of hatred of us
and the earth opens up holes
to force us to die.
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
From: Puerto calcinado
From: Puerto calcinado
WEEPING
María,I speak about the mountains where life grows slowly
those that do not exist in my port of light,
where everything is desert and ashes
and your smile is a tarnished gesture.
There January is the month of the unburied dead
and the land of the first corpse.
María,
don’t you remember?
don’t you see anything?
There our voices are scorched
as our skin
and our heels get burned
for not wanting to know
about the burned up houses.
I speak María
about this land which is the thirst I live with
and the bed in which life is buried.
Think María
that this is not living
and that life is any other thing that exists,
damp in the ports where water does flower,
and where there is not a bonfire in each stone.
Remember, María,
that we are
food for dogs and birds,
we are parched up men,
empty barks
of what we used to be.
What are you made of, my child?
Why do you think you can sew the crack in the landscape
with the thread of your voice?
if this land is a wound that bleeds
in you and in me
and in all the things
made of ashes.
In our land
the raven looks at us with your eyes
and the flowers wilt
out of hatred of us
and the earth opens up holes
to force us to die.
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
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