Poet: Andrés Eloy Blanco
Oh world, to that black woman, Juana
what a bad hand was dealt,
Her black man has died,
yes sir.
—Ay, my dearest compadre,
¡he was so healthy, my black man!
I could not feel his folds,
I could not see his bones;
as I became thiner,
I used my body as measure,
and he began to thin out
as I thinned out as well.
My black man has died;
as God willed it;
he will be next to him now
like an angel in heaven.
Face reality, comadre,
black angels don't exist.
Oh Painter who paints bedroom saints,
painter who's heart knows no land,
that while painting these saints
never remembers your countrymen,
that when you paint virgins,
always paints such beautiful angels,
but never remembers
to paint a black angel.
Painter born in my country,
with a foreign paintbrush,
painter that follows the path,
of so many painters of old,
even if the Virgin is white,
paint her some black angels.
There are no painters to paint
angels for my countrymen.
I want some white angels
next to the brown skinned ones.
Angels from good families
are not enough for my heaven.
If there is a painter of saints left,
if there is a painter of heavens left,
to make a heaven for this land,
with the hues of my countrymen,
with angels of fine pearl,
and angels of auburn hair,
with blond angels,
and brown skinned angels,
with white angels,
and Indian angels,
and black angels,
walking along eating mangoes
through the neighborhoods of heaven.
If I go to heaven someday,
I will search for him there,
my devil of an angel,
my dark black seraphim.
If you know how to paint your land,
you should paint your heaven thus,
with a sun that toasts the whites,
and makes the black ones sweat,
for that’s what it’s for,
warm and good to all.
So even if the Virgin is white,
paint me some black angels.
Is there no church anywhere,
Is there no church in any country,
where they have allowed
black angels on the canvass?
If not, where do they go,
the angels of my country,
the little vultures of the Guaribe,
or the black crows of Barvolento?
Painter that paints this country,
if you want to paint your heaven,
when you paint angels,
remember your countrymen
and next to the blond angel
side by side with the brunette one
Even if the Virgin is white
paint me some black angels.
Oh world, to that black woman, Juana
what a bad hand was dealt,
Her black man has died,
yes sir.
—Ay, my dearest compadre,
¡he was so healthy, my black man!
I could not feel his folds,
I could not see his bones;
as I became thiner,
I used my body as measure,
and he began to thin out
as I thinned out as well.
My black man has died;
as God willed it;
he will be next to him now
like an angel in heaven.
Face reality, comadre,
black angels don't exist.
Oh Painter who paints bedroom saints,
painter who's heart knows no land,
that while painting these saints
never remembers your countrymen,
that when you paint virgins,
always paints such beautiful angels,
but never remembers
to paint a black angel.
Painter born in my country,
with a foreign paintbrush,
painter that follows the path,
of so many painters of old,
even if the Virgin is white,
paint her some black angels.
There are no painters to paint
angels for my countrymen.
I want some white angels
next to the brown skinned ones.
Angels from good families
are not enough for my heaven.
If there is a painter of saints left,
if there is a painter of heavens left,
to make a heaven for this land,
with the hues of my countrymen,
with angels of fine pearl,
and angels of auburn hair,
with blond angels,
and brown skinned angels,
with white angels,
and Indian angels,
and black angels,
walking along eating mangoes
through the neighborhoods of heaven.
If I go to heaven someday,
I will search for him there,
my devil of an angel,
my dark black seraphim.
If you know how to paint your land,
you should paint your heaven thus,
with a sun that toasts the whites,
and makes the black ones sweat,
for that’s what it’s for,
warm and good to all.
So even if the Virgin is white,
paint me some black angels.
Is there no church anywhere,
Is there no church in any country,
where they have allowed
black angels on the canvass?
If not, where do they go,
the angels of my country,
the little vultures of the Guaribe,
or the black crows of Barvolento?
Painter that paints this country,
if you want to paint your heaven,
when you paint angels,
remember your countrymen
and next to the blond angel
side by side with the brunette one
Even if the Virgin is white
paint me some black angels.
No comments:
Post a Comment