Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jorge Bustamante García

THE HOUSE

This is the house. The open windows
let in the light and a dim
duskiness hides in the corners.
Gentle smells wander through the hallways:
eucaliptus, willow, mint,
basil leaves, almond trees, pines,
arepas* turned golden by the fire.
It looks like childhood.
Yellow walls and a courtyard of gray tiles
are the small backdrop
to our children games. Little birds
and roosters perch on the roof.
A man with gray hair
stands by the door looking at us.
A woman, still beautiful, punctually
serves us chocolate at five.
This is the house. The front
door is open
and a misty rain dims the landscape.

LA CASA

LA CASA

Esta es la casa. Las ventanas abiertas
dejan caer la luz y una frágil
penumbra se esconde en los rincones.
Suaves olores deambulan por los corredores:
eucaliptos, sauces, hierbabuena,
hojas de albahaca, almendros, pinos,
arepas doradas al fuego.
Parece ser la infancia.
Paredes amarillas y un patio de baldosas
grises son el pequeño escenario
de nuestros juegos. Sobre el tejado
se paran los pájaros y los gallinazos.
Un hombre de cabellos grises
nos mira desde la puerta.
Una mujer todavía hermosa nos sirve
puntual el chocolate de las cinco.
Esta es la casa. La puerta
de la calle está abierta
y una llovizna empaña el paisaje.
Close

THE HOUSE

This is the house. The open windows
let in the light and a dim
duskiness hides in the corners.
Gentle smells wander through the hallways:
eucaliptus, willow, mint,
basil leaves, almond trees, pines,
arepas* turned golden by the fire.
It looks like childhood.
Yellow walls and a courtyard of gray tiles
are the small backdrop
to our children games. Little birds
and roosters perch on the roof.
A man with gray hair
stands by the door looking at us.
A woman, still beautiful, punctually
serves us chocolate at five.
This is the house. The front
door is open
and a misty rain dims the landscape.

THE HOUSE

This is the house. The open windows
let in the light and a dim
duskiness hides in the corners.
Gentle smells wander through the hallways:
eucaliptus, willow, mint,
basil leaves, almond trees, pines,
arepas* turned golden by the fire.
It looks like childhood.
Yellow walls and a courtyard of gray tiles
are the small backdrop
to our children games. Little birds
and roosters perch on the roof.
A man with gray hair
stands by the door looking at us.
A woman, still beautiful, punctually
serves us chocolate at five.
This is the house. The front
door is open
and a misty rain dims the landscape.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère