Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

José Manuel Arango

MOUNTAINS/3

1

With a glass in my hand, looking at the mountains,
I caress the back of my dog.

These mountains of ours
in the interior,
so familiar they are almost forgotten,
seen so much they are almost invisible,
it is not even sure that they are not
the furniture of a dream.

These sullen mountains
that become thinner,
that engross us.

Now perhaps only a manner
of the voice,
of the step,
of the gesture.


2

I like to caress them slowly following
with  my eyes
their rugged lines,
while on their backs light
imperceptibly
changes from green to blue
to violet.

I like to caress them with my eyes,
as I caress
the back of my dog with my free
hand.

Montañas/3

Montañas/3

1

Con el vaso en la mano, mirando las montañas,
le acaricio el lomo a mi perro.

Estas montañas nuestras
del interior,
casi olvidadas de tan familiares,
casi invisibles de tan vistas,
no es seguro siquiera que no sean
enseres en un sueño.

Estas montañas hoscas
que se adelgazan,
que se ensimisman en nosotros.

Ya sólo acaso una manera
de la voz,
del paso,
del gesto.


2

Me gusta acariciarlas siguiendo con los ojos
morosamente
sus líneas abruptas,
mientras en sus dorsos la luz
de modo imperceptible
va del verde al azul
al violeta.

Me gusta acariciarlas con los ojos,
como acaricio
el lomo de mi perro con la mano
libre.
Close

MOUNTAINS/3

1

With a glass in my hand, looking at the mountains,
I caress the back of my dog.

These mountains of ours
in the interior,
so familiar they are almost forgotten,
seen so much they are almost invisible,
it is not even sure that they are not
the furniture of a dream.

These sullen mountains
that become thinner,
that engross us.

Now perhaps only a manner
of the voice,
of the step,
of the gesture.


2

I like to caress them slowly following
with  my eyes
their rugged lines,
while on their backs light
imperceptibly
changes from green to blue
to violet.

I like to caress them with my eyes,
as I caress
the back of my dog with my free
hand.

MOUNTAINS/3

1

With a glass in my hand, looking at the mountains,
I caress the back of my dog.

These mountains of ours
in the interior,
so familiar they are almost forgotten,
seen so much they are almost invisible,
it is not even sure that they are not
the furniture of a dream.

These sullen mountains
that become thinner,
that engross us.

Now perhaps only a manner
of the voice,
of the step,
of the gesture.


2

I like to caress them slowly following
with  my eyes
their rugged lines,
while on their backs light
imperceptibly
changes from green to blue
to violet.

I like to caress them with my eyes,
as I caress
the back of my dog with my free
hand.
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