Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Raúl Zurita

Letter to those who order

Presidents, countries, landscapes who order: That’s how it was the arrival of the new ones, of the frozen lakes that were the sky, the rivers and the sea spuming above. Could you, women of my country presidents, play together the Overture of the countries? Could you interpret the flight of those deserts rising from the sands to the horizon? The desert of faces human when they burst to flock all the notes rising and they heard how the new earth put itself on the old and the brothers destroyed screamed asking for a new life.
That was the first end. After, when from the earth they saw the sky set itself, the constellations that drew the buffalos and stars of night, sounded kettledrum banging tongues, men and countries who came, while they forgot below woman of my country, the Indian pasture they tread. But because it is one alone the dream countrywomen countries, plains, who order and deserts, all the same they rose swimming in the infinite sonorant sea and the great movements opened razing them. Of symphony, orchestra and all the deserts they played themselves the first movement and scored the sands, the ocean played the second and the breakers surged, but the great overture, that one they wailed together, women of my country presidents.
Yes brothers who order; plains and mountains who order, waters, lakes and rivers who order, the notes reach over the planets that dream and listen, the liberty that dreams and listens. Oh yes countries, countrymen presidents of this world that has died: Not of life are things born again but of the torrent of notes. There they reverberate from the depths of those sands the countries erased and when it be no more than sand the firmament that we see then we can be chango, brotherly.
There you’ll hear the philharmonic of the deserts, the clarinada of sky coming forth from dust, of the old sands that guard the erased. They come my countrymen, countries, women of my country presidents. Like the great Egmont they come sounding below earth and they will be the color of their faces the new cities. That is how they shone the music of those countries falling down and all that comes and lives, that sounds and speaks, face of the ruined it will have.
That will be the homage, my comrades, like Ludwig Van it will be birthing the crash of those chords over the new stars that order, over the new of Cuzco, range of mountains and heights that order, over the new sands and deserts that govern and order.
All, yes, all extend themselves playing the great Egmont of the countries and the sound is more pure yes countrymen, than the hiss of the weep-filled waters of those rivers, like brothers.

Brief aan hen die heersen

President, landen, landschappen die heersen: Zo verliep de aankomst van de nieuwe, van de bevroren meren die de hemel waren, de rivieren en de zee die boven schuimden. Zouden jullie, landgenotes presidenten, samen de Ouverture van de landen kunnen spelen? Zouden jullie de vlucht van de woestijnen kunnen vertolken die uit de zandstreken opstijgen tot aan de horizon? De woestijn van mensengezichten toen ze tevoorschijn donderden opwaartse noten overal en ze hoorden hoe het nieuwe land zich op het oude zette en de verwoeste broeders schreeuwend om een nieuw leven vroegen.
Dat was eerst het einde. Daarna, toen ze vanaf de aarde de hemel zagen verdonkeren, de constellaties die de buffels en de sterren van de nacht tekenden, klonk de timbaalroffel van talen, mensen en landen die naderden, terwijl beneden, landgenote, het indiaanse gras dat ze vertrapten werd vergeten. Maar omdat het enkel één droom is landgenotes landschappen, vlaktes die heersen en woestijnen, zwommen ze evengoed omhoog in de oneindige schallende zee en de grote passages gingen open verpletterden ze. Symfonisch, orkestraal en geheel speelden de woestijnen voor zichzelf het eerste deel en doorkliefden de zandstreken, de oceaan speelde het tweede en de riffen rezen op, maar de grote Ouverture, die beweenden ze allemaal samen, landgenotes presidenten.
Ja broeders die heersen; vlaktes en bergen die heersen, waters, meren en rivieren die heersen, de noten omspannen planeten die we dromen en beluisteren, de vrijheid die droomt en luistert. O, ja, landen, landgenotes presidenten van deze gestorven wereld: Niet uit het leven herrijzen de dingen maar uit de stroom van noten. Daar vibreren vanuit de diepe zandstreken de uitgewiste landen en wanneer we alleen een firmament van zand zullen zien kunnen we misschien chango’s zijn, kompanen.
Daar zal de filharmonie van de woestijnen klinken, het klaroenspel van de hemel dat opstijgt uit het stof, uit de oude zandstreken die de uitgewisten verschuilen. Ze komen eraan vaderlanders, landen, landgenotes presidenten. Als de grote Egmont naderen ze galmend onder de grond en de nieuwe steden zullen de kleur hebben van hun gezichten. Zo glansden in de muziek de vallende landen en al wat komt en leeft, wat droomt en spreekt, zal het gezicht hebben van een verwoeste.
Dat zal het eerbetoon zijn, kameraden, zoals Ludwig Van het baren zal zijn van de explosie van akkoorden over de nieuwe sterren die heersen, over de nieuwe uit Cuzco, bergketens en hoogvlaktes die heersen, over de nieuwe zandgronden en woestijnen die regeren en heersen.
Iedereen, ja, iedereen gaat ervandoor terwijl ze de grote Egmont van de landen spelen en het geluid is puurder ja landgenoten, dan het sissen van het tranende water van deze rivieren, kompanen

Carta a los mandantes

Presidente, países, paisajes que mandan: Así fue la llegada de las nuevas, de los lagos congelados que fueron el cielo, los ríos y el mar espumeando arriba. ¿Podrían ustedes, paisas presidentes, tocar juntos la Obertura de los países? ¿Podrían interpretar el vuelo de los desiertos subiendo desde los arenales hasta el horizonte? El desierto de los humanos rostros cuando irrumpieron en tropel todas las notas subiendo y oyeron como la tierra nueva se ponía sobre la vieja y los hermanos destruidos gritron pidiendo una nueva vida.
Ese fue el final primero. Después, cuando desde la tierra vieron el cielo ponerse, las constelaciones que dibujaban los búfalos y las estrellas de la noche, sonaron timbaleando las lenguas, hombres y países que venían, mientras que se olvidaba abajo paisa, el pasto indio que pisaban. Pero porque es uno solo el sueño paisas paisajes, llanuras que mandan y desiertos, igual subieron nadando en el infinito mar sonoro y los grandes movimientos se abrieron arrasándolos. De sinfónica, orquesta y total se tocaron los desiertos la movida primera y surcaron los arenales, el océano tocó la segunda y surgieron las rompientes, pero la gran Obertura, esa la plañeron todos juntos, paisas presidentes.
Sí hermanos que mandan; llanuras y montañas que mandan, aguas, lagos y ríos que mandan, las notas abarcan los planetas que se sueñan y escuchan, la libertad que sueña y escucha. Oh sí países, paisanos presidentes de este mundo que ha muerto: No de la vida renacen las cosas sino del torrente de las notas. Allí vibran desde el hondor de los arenales los países borrados y cuando sólo de arena sea el firmamento que veamos entonces tal vez podremos ser chango, fraternos.
Ahí se escuchará la filarmónica de los desiertos, la clarinada del cielo saliendo del polvo, de los viejos arenales que guardan a los borrados. Ellos vienen paisanos, países, paisas presidentes. Como la gran Egmont vienen sonando bajo la tierra y serán del color de sus caras las nuevas ciudades. Así brillaron en la música los países cayendo y todo cuanto venga y viva, cuanto sueñe y hable, rostro de un destruido tendrá.
Ese será el homenaje, camaradas, como Ludwig Van será pariendo el estallido de los acordes sobre las nuevas estrellas que mandan, sobre las nuevas del Cuzco, serranías y alturas que mandan, sobre las nuevas arenas y desiertos que gobiernan y mandan.
Todos, sí, todos se largan tocando la gran Egmont de los países y el sonido es más puro sí paisanos, que el cholear de las lagrimosas aguas de estos ríos, fraternos.
Close

Letter to those who order

Presidents, countries, landscapes who order: That’s how it was the arrival of the new ones, of the frozen lakes that were the sky, the rivers and the sea spuming above. Could you, women of my country presidents, play together the Overture of the countries? Could you interpret the flight of those deserts rising from the sands to the horizon? The desert of faces human when they burst to flock all the notes rising and they heard how the new earth put itself on the old and the brothers destroyed screamed asking for a new life.
That was the first end. After, when from the earth they saw the sky set itself, the constellations that drew the buffalos and stars of night, sounded kettledrum banging tongues, men and countries who came, while they forgot below woman of my country, the Indian pasture they tread. But because it is one alone the dream countrywomen countries, plains, who order and deserts, all the same they rose swimming in the infinite sonorant sea and the great movements opened razing them. Of symphony, orchestra and all the deserts they played themselves the first movement and scored the sands, the ocean played the second and the breakers surged, but the great overture, that one they wailed together, women of my country presidents.
Yes brothers who order; plains and mountains who order, waters, lakes and rivers who order, the notes reach over the planets that dream and listen, the liberty that dreams and listens. Oh yes countries, countrymen presidents of this world that has died: Not of life are things born again but of the torrent of notes. There they reverberate from the depths of those sands the countries erased and when it be no more than sand the firmament that we see then we can be chango, brotherly.
There you’ll hear the philharmonic of the deserts, the clarinada of sky coming forth from dust, of the old sands that guard the erased. They come my countrymen, countries, women of my country presidents. Like the great Egmont they come sounding below earth and they will be the color of their faces the new cities. That is how they shone the music of those countries falling down and all that comes and lives, that sounds and speaks, face of the ruined it will have.
That will be the homage, my comrades, like Ludwig Van it will be birthing the crash of those chords over the new stars that order, over the new of Cuzco, range of mountains and heights that order, over the new sands and deserts that govern and order.
All, yes, all extend themselves playing the great Egmont of the countries and the sound is more pure yes countrymen, than the hiss of the weep-filled waters of those rivers, like brothers.

Letter to those who order

Presidents, countries, landscapes who order: That’s how it was the arrival of the new ones, of the frozen lakes that were the sky, the rivers and the sea spuming above. Could you, women of my country presidents, play together the Overture of the countries? Could you interpret the flight of those deserts rising from the sands to the horizon? The desert of faces human when they burst to flock all the notes rising and they heard how the new earth put itself on the old and the brothers destroyed screamed asking for a new life.
That was the first end. After, when from the earth they saw the sky set itself, the constellations that drew the buffalos and stars of night, sounded kettledrum banging tongues, men and countries who came, while they forgot below woman of my country, the Indian pasture they tread. But because it is one alone the dream countrywomen countries, plains, who order and deserts, all the same they rose swimming in the infinite sonorant sea and the great movements opened razing them. Of symphony, orchestra and all the deserts they played themselves the first movement and scored the sands, the ocean played the second and the breakers surged, but the great overture, that one they wailed together, women of my country presidents.
Yes brothers who order; plains and mountains who order, waters, lakes and rivers who order, the notes reach over the planets that dream and listen, the liberty that dreams and listens. Oh yes countries, countrymen presidents of this world that has died: Not of life are things born again but of the torrent of notes. There they reverberate from the depths of those sands the countries erased and when it be no more than sand the firmament that we see then we can be chango, brotherly.
There you’ll hear the philharmonic of the deserts, the clarinada of sky coming forth from dust, of the old sands that guard the erased. They come my countrymen, countries, women of my country presidents. Like the great Egmont they come sounding below earth and they will be the color of their faces the new cities. That is how they shone the music of those countries falling down and all that comes and lives, that sounds and speaks, face of the ruined it will have.
That will be the homage, my comrades, like Ludwig Van it will be birthing the crash of those chords over the new stars that order, over the new of Cuzco, range of mountains and heights that order, over the new sands and deserts that govern and order.
All, yes, all extend themselves playing the great Egmont of the countries and the sound is more pure yes countrymen, than the hiss of the weep-filled waters of those rivers, like brothers.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère