Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Aurelio Arturo

Drought

  
  

Because the thirst had wounded everything,  
all beings, every land of men . . .            
And never again would the rain return     
  
And the village died in the brass silence.  
The thin dogs lengthened their tongues up to the galaxies.  
And is it only secretly that the forests know how to speak?  
  
And thirst taught impudent words,  
and it was a memory of sap and fruit,                 
it was an iris of ice opened up in the whole sky.  

And the man said: here next to my bed  
dogs of thirst and fire jump at my throat . . .         
But beyond the distances
I hear rain coming joyfully dancing      
with violets and roses,  
I see it coming in distances of years,  
its small, fine and jumping feet.             
  
If it rained on the village,                 
on the valleys’ dry yawn,             
if it rained on the carpets  
of the mountain,
on the night of yellow rocks.         
  
There was a thin needle,         
lost,  
in the profuse shade,  
a small needle of water.                 
  
And the young copper-coloured mother         
inclined and naked as a plantain leaf         
has a son of mud
fastened to her breasts,    
other days the timid skies descended  
to pick up the grains in her palm of clay.  
  
Where is the naked water  
the water that shines and sings?  
  
The water is in the night like an opaque light.  
  
And that humid word sounding far away in the mountain.         
That fresh drum from who knows where.

Sequía

Sequía

  
  

Porque la sed había herido toda cosa,  
todo ser, todo tierra de hombres . . .  
Y nunca más volvería la lluvia.  
  
Y moría la aldea en el silencio de bronce.  
Los flacos perros alargaban sus lenguas hasta las galaxias.  
¿Y sólo en secreto saben habitar los bosques?  
  
Y la sed enseñaba palabras procaces,  
y era un recuerdo de savias y frutas,  
era un lirio de hielo abierto en todo el cielo.  
  
Y dijo el hombre: aquí junto a mi lecho  
perros de sed y fuego saltan a mi garganta . . .
Pero más allá de las lontananzas  
oigo venir la lluvia danzando jubilosa  
con violetas y rosas,  
la siento venir en distancias de años,  
sus pies menudos, finos y saltarines.  
  
Si lloviera en la aldea,  
sobre los valles que bostezan secos,  
si lloviera sobre las alfombras  
del monte,  
sobre la noche de rocas amarillas.  
  
Una delgada aguja había,  
perdida,  
en la profusa sombra,  
una agujita de agua.  
  
Y la joven medra cobriza  
inclinada y desnuda como hoja de plátano,  
prendido de sus senos  
tiene un hijo de barro,  
otros días los cielos tímidos descendían  
a picotear los granos en su palma de greda.  
  
¿Dónde el agua desnuda  
el agua que brilla y canta?  
  
El agua es en la noche como una luz opaca.  
  
Y esa palabra húmeda sonando lejos en el monte.  
Ese fresco tambor no se sabe dónde.  
Close

Drought

  
  

Because the thirst had wounded everything,  
all beings, every land of men . . .            
And never again would the rain return     
  
And the village died in the brass silence.  
The thin dogs lengthened their tongues up to the galaxies.  
And is it only secretly that the forests know how to speak?  
  
And thirst taught impudent words,  
and it was a memory of sap and fruit,                 
it was an iris of ice opened up in the whole sky.  

And the man said: here next to my bed  
dogs of thirst and fire jump at my throat . . .         
But beyond the distances
I hear rain coming joyfully dancing      
with violets and roses,  
I see it coming in distances of years,  
its small, fine and jumping feet.             
  
If it rained on the village,                 
on the valleys’ dry yawn,             
if it rained on the carpets  
of the mountain,
on the night of yellow rocks.         
  
There was a thin needle,         
lost,  
in the profuse shade,  
a small needle of water.                 
  
And the young copper-coloured mother         
inclined and naked as a plantain leaf         
has a son of mud
fastened to her breasts,    
other days the timid skies descended  
to pick up the grains in her palm of clay.  
  
Where is the naked water  
the water that shines and sings?  
  
The water is in the night like an opaque light.  
  
And that humid word sounding far away in the mountain.         
That fresh drum from who knows where.

Drought

  
  

Because the thirst had wounded everything,  
all beings, every land of men . . .            
And never again would the rain return     
  
And the village died in the brass silence.  
The thin dogs lengthened their tongues up to the galaxies.  
And is it only secretly that the forests know how to speak?  
  
And thirst taught impudent words,  
and it was a memory of sap and fruit,                 
it was an iris of ice opened up in the whole sky.  

And the man said: here next to my bed  
dogs of thirst and fire jump at my throat . . .         
But beyond the distances
I hear rain coming joyfully dancing      
with violets and roses,  
I see it coming in distances of years,  
its small, fine and jumping feet.             
  
If it rained on the village,                 
on the valleys’ dry yawn,             
if it rained on the carpets  
of the mountain,
on the night of yellow rocks.         
  
There was a thin needle,         
lost,  
in the profuse shade,  
a small needle of water.                 
  
And the young copper-coloured mother         
inclined and naked as a plantain leaf         
has a son of mud
fastened to her breasts,    
other days the timid skies descended  
to pick up the grains in her palm of clay.  
  
Where is the naked water  
the water that shines and sings?  
  
The water is in the night like an opaque light.  
  
And that humid word sounding far away in the mountain.         
That fresh drum from who knows where.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère