jueves, 10 de diciembre de 2015

164 - (Translation)

From Cuaderno de Belfast - Dublín

The verse storms me from the couch
when I stand up
to remove the tea bag
from the water
that has gone cold in the kitchen.

And Pande does not look at me
from the seashell of her dreams
as though she knew tea was cold,
that Loulee stares at her beyond the window pane.
And then the phone
dead set on hauling in the sails
of those catamarans
cutting through aging waves
in parallel.

Dublin is damp
these days,
every step is sucked into the ground,
and puddles refuse to freeze
with the excuse of not being cold enough.

I'd rather go silent,
inhabit a silence,
let the TV or the answering machine talk,
let the damp stain scream,
let the hinges tear down the voices,
but do not make me cry
because my tear evaporates in the wind of the Liffey,
my nose runs with the obsession of window blinds,
my mouth quivers from the painting with the clown and the balloons...
because I could show you my chest
the vacuum of the cleft of my memory.