El amor lavando el color verde
The poet has come down from
the white hills to die in the red
stone plaza.
The poet of the black mesa. The
steel tribute of the bruised
tornadoes.
The song of the village is in his
heart. The song of his white
heart.
The poet turns left at the edge
of town, and circumambulates.
He walks sunwise along the
ridges, sniffing the silver olives.
His mind is on fire with snow. A
snow flute could narrate this
story.
The dead white horses have
come to snuffle at his feet.
Trailing over steaming flanks, the
river has a quicksilver tongue.
A song floats across the plaza:
the suicide pacts of lovers,
overwrought, far too passionate,
thus perfectly contained.
At the poet’s feet, the young
boys bear wreathes of thorns.
Ivory from the hills has been
brought into the darkened city.
A lone olive tree, stripped bare
by long-haired girls.
At the edge of the cliff, a white-
gowned child spins a rosary.
The poet has merged with the
grass, his face is the olive trees.
He peers out, wiser, greened,
between beetle-chewed leaves.
Butterflies emerge from his lips,
and are spent. The white
butterflies.
In time, the blood falling from
the blue rose-petals will dry.
Deep song from the café,
Federico, where you sat and
laughed,
the blood on your pants black in
the candlelight,
while you laughed, freed at last
from love’s knives,
Federico, freed at last in the hills
by death’s silver stinger.
Blue tongues of the white
flowers, Federico, and the
blood-black rose.
The black mesa, Federico, and
the white hills. The song of your
white heart.
Перевод.***
the white hills to die in the red
stone plaza.
The poet of the black mesa. The
steel tribute of the bruised
tornadoes.
The song of the village is in his
heart. The song of his white
heart.
The poet turns left at the edge
of town, and circumambulates.
He walks sunwise along the
ridges, sniffing the silver olives.
His mind is on fire with snow. A
snow flute could narrate this
story.
The dead white horses have
come to snuffle at his feet.
Trailing over steaming flanks, the
river has a quicksilver tongue.
A song floats across the plaza:
the suicide pacts of lovers,
overwrought, far too passionate,
thus perfectly contained.
At the poet’s feet, the young
boys bear wreathes of thorns.
Ivory from the hills has been
brought into the darkened city.
A lone olive tree, stripped bare
by long-haired girls.
At the edge of the cliff, a white-
gowned child spins a rosary.
The poet has merged with the
grass, his face is the olive trees.
He peers out, wiser, greened,
between beetle-chewed leaves.
Butterflies emerge from his lips,
and are spent. The white
butterflies.
In time, the blood falling from
the blue rose-petals will dry.
Deep song from the café,
Federico, where you sat and
laughed,
the blood on your pants black in
the candlelight,
while you laughed, freed at last
from love’s knives,
Federico, freed at last in the hills
by death’s silver stinger.
Blue tongues of the white
flowers, Federico, and the
blood-black rose.
The black mesa, Federico, and
the white hills. The song of your
white heart.
Перевод.***
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13.03.2012 в 15:15Поэт спустился с
белых холмов, чтобы
умереть на площади красных камней.
Поэт тёмных гор.
стальная дань
оскорбленного
торнадо.
Песнь деревни находится в
его
сердце. Песнь его светлого
сердца.
Поэт поворачивает налево
на краю
города.
Он идет
вперед
через горные хребты, вдыхая
запах серебряных маслин.
Его мысли в огне и
снегах.на
флейте снега звучала мелодия.
Мертвые белые лошади
в
его ногах,
у реки языки ртути.
Песня плывёт через площадь....
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13.03.2012 в 19:46-
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14.03.2012 в 14:15