Heartbreaking fires were the cause of the new births
I need not fly to discover
that the sun will not harm
the dreams of the dove
and that cliffs do not suffer
in dark ocean nights.
I need not fly or be again born
to recall those timeless times.
I live and feel the surge of my Indian blood:
Stone that Kisses the Water
was my grandmother's name.
She hunted with Spotted Sycamore
a myriad of armadillos and drumming-feet rabbits.
It was two in the afternoon when the world first saw my eyes
And decided they were good enough.
The drought of those years
parched the breasts of my mother:
Moonbeam on the Otter's Eyes
It was the time when one could be
the only offspring of the cows, the goats,
and the other females of the open fields.
I was lulled to sleep in the feet of cougars
and the soot-dark skin of my childhood
knew naught of still waters.
The rapids knocked me around so much
that I will never forget the still-and-moving catfish whiskers.
With my hand held by the reeds,
these feet you see learned how to walk.
My paths were stalked
by parakeets, cockatoos, and parrots;
and my lips began to hunger for
guavas, medlars, blackberries,
and other fruit growing by the grasslands.
When dad ran off in search of other roots,
I was adopted by the oaks.
The pilgrim falcon, mentor of my flight
Took me non-stop through the tropical heights.
I am a favored godchild of the Caribbean jungle.
Tell me then, is there a hurricane that can break my bones?
There is a bridge full of flowers
and the orchestra is ready to play
(Poema escrito por el autor directamente en inglés)
I am flying to your eyes,
and I am not tired at all,
the music of your soul is the most powerful vitamin.
I am ready for the rain, the drums and the howler monkeys,
I am ready to sow my heart in those humid lands,
I am ready to grow with the leafs,
to warm up my veins with the tropical sunshine.
I am ready to fly, to dance, to be reborn.
It is the time to bury my past and my pains,
the time to remind and respect,
the intense colors of my dreams.
Look at the stars,
In which one would you like to be?
In which horse would you like to ride?
I am ready to be, to sing and pray,
I am ready to share the longest melody of God.
There is a perfume that I will love to smell.
It is raining and I like to be wet,
to be with,
to be alive.
Reeds
As you part,
your wings nest in the despairing flight of my lips
my grief plays at becoming a song
of wounding nostalgia,
and repenting blood.
I await your return when the evenings shift,
but evenings are always the same.
Your absence thunders,
stumbling afar,
dwarfed.
Alone, my lips
refuse to say goodbye.
Waking with a cross on my shoulders
The metaphor escaped me,
I had days enough to tell you,
but the surf was gone.
Then came the worn out air
we refused to breath.
I ran, fire scorching my haunches,
and lost you in the wreck.
Nobody learned about the ants,
about the pain withering our flowers.
Any day now, I'll race through the fields,
with swords in my eyes, I will slice the hills
And dig at night to find the colorful stones,
that were sprinkled in your dreams.
It is not enough late,
It is not enough dark,
the moon of march
will come,
as a drop of milk
will nourish and bring
the strength to my bones,
and the wetness to my heart.
It is never enough late,
there is always enough light.
