Poem
Sonia Bueno
The house and the birds
we leave the housewith a candle
lighted
under the rain.
s.b.
IRON BARS OF THE SKIN
not many birds
in the house of cold
too many folds
between your cutting page
and december
the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell
SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL
SUMMER
the sun sets
on both sides
of the house
some birds
return
SPRING
the whole secret
of the house
on the rooftop
the birds
want to see
IF THE BIRD CALLS
eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror
the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands
for a moment
you know yourself
NO BOWS NO NOAHS
it is not the rain
it is the sound of rain
that cuts to the bone
it is not the bird
it is the tiny
resistance
of the wound
underwater
the roof
melting
the snow
this is the house
its splendour
MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT
Het huis en de vogels
we verlieten het huismet een kaars
brandend
in de regen.
s. b.
TRALIE VAN DE HUID
weinig vogels
in het huis van de kou
te veel plooien
tussen jouw stalen blad
en december
de wind is
maart in de takken
zijn
balken van de stilte wat is
het huis
bevolkt met huiverige vogels
OOK DE SNEEUW WAS GELOGEN
ZOMER
de zon gaat onder
aan beide kanten
van het huis
sommige vogels
komen terug
LENTE
heel het geheim
van het huis
op het platte dak
de vogels
willen zien
ALS DE VOGEL ROEPT
ademen ogen
in de kieren
van de spiegel
paraderen de doden
met hun as
in hun handen
heel even
herken je jezelf
ZONDER ARKEN OF NOACHS
het is niet de regen
het is zijn geluid
dat het bot oprakelt
het is niet de vogel
het is de nietige
weerstand
van de wond
in het water
het dak
smeltend
de sneeuw
zo het huis
zijn schittering
DE BEWEGING VAN EEN SPOOR
La casa y los pájaros
abandonamos la casacon una vela
encendida
bajo la lluvia.
s. b.
REJA DE LA PIEL
pocos pájaros
en la casa del frío
demasiados pliegues
entre tu hoja acerada
y diciembre
el viento es
marzo en las ramas
son
vigas del silencio qué es
la casa
poblada de pájaros temblorosos
TAMBIÉN LA NIEVE ERA MENTIRA
VERANO
el sol se pone
en ambos lados
de la casa
algunos pájaros
vuelven
PRIMAVERA
todo el secreto
de la casa
en la azotea
los pájaros
quieren ver
SI EL PÁJARO LLAMA
ojos respiran
en las grietas
del espejo
desfilan los muertos
con sus cenizas
entre las manos
por un momento
te reconoces
SIN ARCAS NI NOÉS
no es la lluvia
es su sonido
que hurga el hueso
no es el pájaro
es la minúscula
resistencia
de la herida
en el agua
el tejado
derritiendo
la nieve
así la casa
su esplendor
EL MOVIMIENTO DE UNA HUELLA
Poems
Poems of Sonia Bueno
Close
The house and the birds
we leave the housewith a candle
lighted
under the rain.
s.b.
IRON BARS OF THE SKIN
not many birds
in the house of cold
too many folds
between your cutting page
and december
the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell
SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL
SUMMER
the sun sets
on both sides
of the house
some birds
return
SPRING
the whole secret
of the house
on the rooftop
the birds
want to see
IF THE BIRD CALLS
eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror
the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands
for a moment
you know yourself
NO BOWS NO NOAHS
it is not the rain
it is the sound of rain
that cuts to the bone
it is not the bird
it is the tiny
resistance
of the wound
underwater
the roof
melting
the snow
this is the house
its splendour
MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT
The house and the birds
we leave the housewith a candle
lighted
under the rain.
s.b.
IRON BARS OF THE SKIN
not many birds
in the house of cold
too many folds
between your cutting page
and december
the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell
SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL
SUMMER
the sun sets
on both sides
of the house
some birds
return
SPRING
the whole secret
of the house
on the rooftop
the birds
want to see
IF THE BIRD CALLS
eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror
the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands
for a moment
you know yourself
NO BOWS NO NOAHS
it is not the rain
it is the sound of rain
that cuts to the bone
it is not the bird
it is the tiny
resistance
of the wound
underwater
the roof
melting
the snow
this is the house
its splendour
MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT
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