Friday, February 18, 2011

Andrea Cote

Do not summon any longer, María,
the soul of destitute things
that are no more than the bones of this dead house.

Do not look for the emptiness of your body in the walls
that do not know about you
that do not ask about you;
nor for the scars in the air
of the embalmed blue
that’s only here as proof of an abolished sky.

The landscape is all that you see,
but it doesn’t know you exist,
just as these things will tell nothing about you,
about your wounds.

Remember, María,
that you are the house and the walls
that you came to demolish
and that childhood is the territory
in which the spook longs for
I don’t know what dark nook to stay on.

No comments: