Monday, December 7, 2009

Pedro Garcia Cabrera

To the right of the voice of the statues dream
a river of birds flows by.
The river is a little girl and the bird a key.
And the key a field of wheat.
That opens a small snail of a hundred days.
This means the hills of broken men
Are made of cardboard, wood and green walnuts.
But don't touch that anguish; it's all from the Sunday
When they created the nests in which tomorrow the
[adulterous stones will brood.
It's from that fish looking through the sea's eye
At how war is the tenderness guarding the empty beds
And peace that blood with which feet spatter their chains.
Let's go now. Don't pierce the shadow I had four years ago,
For my fingers ache with hunger and my heart with rains.
Better for you to sleep, to go on walking.
I'll wait for you till the tigers, on the lake shore after the
[wine harvest,
Lying farmhands to the fields
And shoulders of someone on the deserted promises
[without water.

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