El fuego y la poesía / César Moro

Fire and Poetry

In the golden water the burning sun reflects
the hand of the zenith.


I love love
On Tuesday not Wednesday
I love the love of the disunited states
Under the noxious influence of Judaism on monastic life
Of the sugar henna ice shine or pocket birds
I love love with its bloody face with two immense doors open to the void
Love as it appeared in two hundred and fifty episodes over five years
Love from a broken economy
Like the most expansionist country
Over thousands of naked beings treated like beasts
In order to adopt those simple weapons of love
Where the crime spends the night and drinks clear water
Of the day’s warmest blood


I love the dense branched love
Savage just like a Medusa
Disaster love
Daily sphere in which total spring
Swings spilling blood
Love made of rain rings
Of transparent rocks
Of mountains that fly and disappear
And become miniscule pebbles
Love like a dagger stab
Like a shipwreck
The total loss of speech of breath
The kingdom of thick shadows
With bulging, murderous eyes
The very long saliva
The rage of being lost
The frenetic awakening in the middle of the night
Beneath the tempest that undresses us
And the distant flash transforming the trees
In lumber of hair that pronounces your name
Days and hours of eternal nakedness


I love the rage of losing you
Your absence on the horse of days
Your shadow and the idea of your shadow
That leans over a field of water
Your kestrel eyes in the hands of time
That undoes me and recreates you
Time that dawns leaving me more alone
When I emerge from my dream than an antedeluvian animal lost in the shadow of his days
Like a toothless beast chasing its prey
Like the kite over the sky evolving with clockwork precision
I see you in a loud jungle and throwing myself at you
with the fatality of a stick of dynamite
Rationing out your veins and drinking your blood
Fighting with the day lacerating dawn
Dislocating death’s body
And finally time is mine
And night reaches me
And the dream that annuls me devours you
And I can assimilate you like a ripe fruit
Like a stone on a sinking island

{ César Moro | Peru, 1903-1956 }


Guillermo Parra said...

A Moro reading must have been a strange event, nearly invisible.

Sirama Bajo said...

Holy fuck! (Uhmmmmn, excuse me, sometimes there's only an expletive...)