Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Raúl Zurita

6

Bruno is dead, Susana is dead. The black land 
and behind it the bloody gauze of the snow on 
the mountains. The white surf rises and falls in 
front. The small cities are white on the night 
roads. They are like flecks of light suddenly 
appearing and then nothing. Someone heard 
them and now they are thousands of white 
faces, with their teeth slightly reddened and the 
eye sockets empty. My love letters. Then nothing.

I pass by small towns in the night. I pass by fur 
flecked with blood. Both are tenuous. Bruno is 
tenuous, Susana now is tenuous.

Words of love are tenuous, as the night is 
tenuous, as the stalks of the daisies, yet they 
scream when the wind bends them. They 
scream and I hear them. My love letters are 
tenuous. They have small flecks of blood and 
saliva on them.

I am going back home, Bruno says. Susana also 
says she is going back home.
 

6

Bruno is dood, Susana is dood. Het zwarte
veld en erachter het bloederige gaas van de sneeuw
in de bergen. Verderop gaat de witte branding 
omhoog en omlaag. De kleine steden zijn wit op
de nachtelijke wegen. Ze lijken spetters licht 
die plotseling verschijnen en daarna niets. Iemand
hoorde ze en nu zijn het duizenden witte gezichten, 
met lichtrood gekleurde tanden en de oogholtes 
leeg. Mijn liefdesbrieven. Daarna niets. 

Ik doorkruis kleine dorpjes in de nacht. Ik doorkruis
vachten bespikkeld met bloed. Beiden zijn ijl. 
Bruno is ijl, Susana is nu ijl.

Woorden van liefde zijn ijl, zoals de nacht
ijl is, zoals de stelen van de margrieten, maar
toch krijsen ze wanneer de wind ze dubbelklapt.
Ze krijsen en ik hoor ze. Mijn liefdesbrieven zijn
ijl. Er zitten kleine spikkels op, van bloed en speeksel.

Ik ga terug naar huis, zegt Bruno. Susana zegt ook
dat ze teruggaat naar huis. 
 

6

Bruno está muerto, Susana está muerta. El campo 
negro y atrás la gasa sanguinolenta de la nieve de 
las montañas. La rompiente blanca sube y baja 
adelante. Las ciudades pequeñas son blancas en 
los caminos de noche. Se asemejan a copos de luz 
apareciendo de pronto y luego nada. Alguien los 
oyó y ahora son miles de caras blancas, con los 
dientes levemente enrojecidos y las cuencas de los 
ojos vacías. Mis cartas de amor. Luego nada.

Cruzo pueblos pequeños en la noche. Cruzo 
pelajes moteados de sangre. Ambos son leves. 
Bruno es leve, Susana ahora es leve.

Las palabras de amor son leves, como la noche es 
leve, como los tallos de las margaritas, sin 
embargo ellos chillan cuando el viento los dobla. 
Chillan y yo los escucho. Mis cartas de amor son 
leves. Tienen pequeñas motas de sangre y saliva.

Vuelvo a casa, dice Bruno. Susana también dice 
que vuelve a casa.
 
Close

6

Bruno is dead, Susana is dead. The black land 
and behind it the bloody gauze of the snow on 
the mountains. The white surf rises and falls in 
front. The small cities are white on the night 
roads. They are like flecks of light suddenly 
appearing and then nothing. Someone heard 
them and now they are thousands of white 
faces, with their teeth slightly reddened and the 
eye sockets empty. My love letters. Then nothing.

I pass by small towns in the night. I pass by fur 
flecked with blood. Both are tenuous. Bruno is 
tenuous, Susana now is tenuous.

Words of love are tenuous, as the night is 
tenuous, as the stalks of the daisies, yet they 
scream when the wind bends them. They 
scream and I hear them. My love letters are 
tenuous. They have small flecks of blood and 
saliva on them.

I am going back home, Bruno says. Susana also 
says she is going back home.
 

6

Bruno is dead, Susana is dead. The black land 
and behind it the bloody gauze of the snow on 
the mountains. The white surf rises and falls in 
front. The small cities are white on the night 
roads. They are like flecks of light suddenly 
appearing and then nothing. Someone heard 
them and now they are thousands of white 
faces, with their teeth slightly reddened and the 
eye sockets empty. My love letters. Then nothing.

I pass by small towns in the night. I pass by fur 
flecked with blood. Both are tenuous. Bruno is 
tenuous, Susana now is tenuous.

Words of love are tenuous, as the night is 
tenuous, as the stalks of the daisies, yet they 
scream when the wind bends them. They 
scream and I hear them. My love letters are 
tenuous. They have small flecks of blood and 
saliva on them.

I am going back home, Bruno says. Susana also 
says she is going back home.
 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
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