As de sol / José Barroeta

Ace of Suns

                                                  To Rebeca Giamate

I

You’re my forbidden reading,
the true story I love and tell myself,
alone.
You’re the golden door that makes the afternoon,
the fire it lights to celebrate my best
days.


II

Your fragrance recovered
Oh your fragrance I loved so illusively,
may the sun and all the stars move for you.
And even when my heart’s fire perishes,
even when it sobs sacredly with solitude,
even when without looking at the earth your strong smell persists
all over the world,
you will see my cold silhouette, leafless in the wind.


III

Beautiful,
dreamed daughter of beauty,
who comes to me riding your sun horse.


IV

Fable where being or not being
is the red countryside.


V

Honey hidden in a cup of liquors.
How many times have I tasted your last presence there.


VI

Your web of gold makes a vassal
of my life. You fly like a beautiful and imaginary
bird.


VII

The distance between your two breasts
is a long red and white acacia.


VIII

I call you,
I speak with you in the depths of the rain.
A volcano and silk rose falls to me from your
lips.


IX

City where our retinue
is crossed by wild animals. Inexplicable castle
of a pure and real anxiety.


X

Even for you in the olive grove
I listen to blood from your words. For you that thought
of the cross becomes aroma.


XI

There’s no fable nor truth
where I might keep you.


XII

You speak a language of wild animals,
there’s no pride nor treachery to serve your taming.
You’re one thing in the world and another in the sky,
you always fill my lair with water copiously.


XIII

Flagellated,
I reach you through desolation.
For you I haven’t ceased stepping on sadness.
To persuade you I’ve gone to every temptation.
To have you I’ve filled your head with breeze.


XIV

Now I blaspheme.
Your pollen skin sleeps far from me.
Sacred like the moribund.


XV

June,
great master of the year and sky,
cover our entire white past.
Insult this holiday of sadness.




Todos han muerto (1971)




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