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Patxi Ezkiaga Lasa > Extracts

Poetry

2004 | Egileen edizioa

Translated by Xoan Alonso

I LOVE YOU

Spread on the room floor
the unheard syllables
of your pen;
you fear to ignore
the strength of two words.
All that is not shared knows
we'll become dust,
no matter how infinite the hope body would be.
no matter how high the pain dignity would be.
You know that paper curtains
and cardboard folders state
the boundary
between desire and communion.
And the echoless scream of empty sentences
comes to us
like the faltering sigh of an enthusiastic mermaid.

Then, we realize
our own heart
like new confectioneries
smelling marshmallow,
and that two words cannot be written just once,
that the chestnut in the drum
and the fire hands
are the sound of recurring autumns,
until the coming solitude hurts us.


URRESTILLA

The music opens her arms
like trapezes.
Dancing melodies
at the village square.
But nobody will know the pace
-to the right, to the left-
its beginning,
and each one
will be the mystery of life
in the innocent step.
I will be yours and you will be mine,
the illusion of entering
a true dream:
the amazing waking up
in an unknown syuare,
full of unknown people,
the anguish of breaking
the borderline between you and me,
the brief news about a death.
But I don't give up. We shouldn't.
The square gets down the air,
the dancing fills us with birds,
I will be your absence and you my presence,
winter pulse of an eternal spring.


THE CONCSCIOUS EMPTINESS

The determined spaces betwenn two solitudes,
the hope of someone who aims to touch the
[concave,
in order to create light out of silence,
silence out of light.

The minute naked feet of colour
to understand the escape
from the core.

And again, silence,
rhythmic, set,
the melody that Keats failed,
origin and sea of the music.
Space where Monetīs granmnar
falls into pieces.


THUS, COVERED WITH A MORTUARY SHEET,

and without the shelter of dry land.
we'll be castaways twice.
We will be thrown overboard,
lo be, at last,
after death.
neighbour astral body,
generosity which redeems
every and each one of our existential crisis.
And like they clay which demands answers
to the ceramist,
we will demand lo the sea, not justice.
but common sense,
as compensation
for the juncture.
And we will be the drop which challenges
the occean,
the music
or the loudspeaker which drowns the screams
of a tortured prisoner in a cell.
the humiliated question to the creator
"why have you created me?".
Some day, we will be covered with a mortuary
[sheet
and thrown overboard into tt different sea.


PETIT KONTXESI

The lights, the melody, the gesstures of the guests,
the desire of the bodies
in the ceremonious salon
will be concealed in the deepest of our bowels
unless the prince charmin; arrives
in his carriaae at the end of the celebration.
"Wife is an odd party -we say-,
a trapic and royal party
before the last note of bugles".
Then, we come back home, one more time.
thirsty of an imaginary sea.
We return, on foot,
towards the shelter on the nearest shore.
And although we are lying
with the fear of a new littoral,
waters do not appoint to any country.
And how beautiful is to drown below that sea every night,
of longings and caresses,
purple and blue become our lips.



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