Poems from quebrada de la virgen / Armando Rojas Guardia (Caracas, 1949)
Poemas de quebrada de la virgen (Caracas: Fundarte, 1985)
Unsought, they arise today
the bread without the table's support,
the clear water without the cup,
the tree without the letters that write or pronounce it,
the punctual bird in the sleeping city.
The rain stepping on the grass and resucitating
virgin perfumes. The new lime
glows on the wall of the belltower
where Sunday calls me in.
That piece of moss on the pavement
reminds me that the World (subversive)
eventually defeats History. And with him,
this day conquers, complete and silent,
surrender within its glut, trash
accumulated on the sidewalk yesterday.
There's a holiday in the entrails of silence
and even the motorcycles sound today
in the festive emptiness, like a circus
of prehistoric animals playing
in the ear's sylvan childhood.
The ever-present street is another street:
a stamp written from behind
in the first calligraphy of light.
There are no butterflies but instead
that dog's eyes, under the porch,
are thankful, watery, in the warm sun.
They watch me, ignoring their own sweetness
in the ecstatic prayer of instinct.
How did this hour's myth crystalize
within the liquid atheism of time?
Someone draws the day for us.
Someone loves me today, secretly.