sábado, 1 de marzo de 2008

From Contradanza de pie y de barro

There is a wind blowing
flowery moods
atmosphere of terror
a quaking where the nerves
of water tremble.
There is a breath in the wind
in which reside fruit
ripe with innocence.
There is a wind blowing
alive between fingers
a bonfire dense
whit the sound of thunder.
There is a breath in the wind
calling to clay, the wave
that rises and falls,
to kiss its edge.
There is a breath and a wind
detached from the air
they search among things
for their true names.


Clay is a thing
an earthly object
mere matter, flux
that thinks not, feels not.
Clay is an element
sustenance without essence
an adulterous mix, no more,
of water and earth.


The foot has no name
is an active organ
with neither body nor will
it’s the foot that sustains
a vast edifice
of countless textures.
The foot is only a part
a particle of dust
of no apparent worth.

Translation by Joan Lindgren

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