Oculto / José Barroeta

Hidden

To what trade should I submit;
to what moon of the seven that fly
over the nape of my living father
should I celebrate.
What gold should I give death
if there is no abyss under me
none further above
but rather everything locked up in me as in
fruit.
Something hides me,
maybe the perverse inclination to stay
in the yellow forest where I grew up,
in the nervous blue of the hills.




Arte de anochecer (1975)




{ José Barroeta, Todos han muerto: Poesía completa (1971-2006), Barcelona: Editorial Candaya, 2006 }