Before your scarce skin nothingness, before
the hustle and bustle in which I write
verses for delirium I touch the spirit
exhausted from the streets in makeup
blind of your lips, and there is not a single
reproach, there is not a single emptiness a single moan
because of thirst the river dies if it doesn’t flow
that flow in condemnation.
I play the beloved walk in the steps of the road
there is no dawn that is worth no more hours
in the insecure tick tock clock, no more
the uncertainty of a kiss by fire
that we carry inside.
The celestial spirits in the morning angel
of the days and I observe you as eyes of the mirror,
and the rage of tonight… I must be crazy
tonight in redouble of sentences
on the fake move
from your eyes another elusive.
Let me fly in the intoxicated balm
that you try to stone, tonight leave the hours
of insomnia join the late lust
to count with caution the times when
you call my name in the shadows
depopulated from my belly.
In the sealed corner of my bedroom enter
Stripped of rags, enter the genesis
historical night in which she must be crazy tonight,
and in the shadows of insomnia, I must sleep very lightly
flashing my songs, drawing destiny
in order to see you serene embraced by my memories
and me in a light coat.
Now I sleep in the square of the neighborhoods
far from my bones
Now I am the reddish and unstable blood
I am my own blood infected by attachments that pull
I am the brave courage of my calm.
Now I am what there is in the afternoon or at night
I am finally the very grave of the rain
I am the enthusiastic descent of the winds
I am the extreme unconsciousness of Calvary.
Now I run between stores that kick me out
To the stinking pavement of my bones.
I am the chalky reflection of regret
I am the sleeper of the parks
When the cold squeezes you.
I am the camera of smiles
When hunger devours us
I’m the libertine hideout
Between caged wolves in the alien of your eyes
I am the unbearable temple of blows to the chest.
Now I’m the one with the meows
of the cats that I kidnap
now I’m hungry that closes my rib
light from so many clothes… I have hidden cravings…
freedoms that deny me
now I look at myself and I look at myself
in the unconscious of the air
in the subconscious of the books that cover me
and that inexplicably I fall into the game of myself
Now I’m like the tale of the old
I am the one who cleans… the wounds of oblivion…
in the parks,
in the streets…I am…
Oh, serpent of the low meekness,
Oh, skirmishing investiture of columns,
Oh, my night, unapproachable with rumblings,
pitiful rotten of the things that remain to me,
uncertain amalgamation of the streets,
bloodless testimony of the valleys,
sequin of shadows that obsess.
Oh I could cry at the window,
Oh, time devoid of your anarchist wings,
come and crush this lemon tree a little in his audacity,
metaphysical song of birth and death,
binder coating of this crippled moan,
vestige of the orchards that intimidate the alluring sleeping pill.
you cool insurgents under the dying canvas.
Oh, miserable traitor who poisons the purest of my soul,
here I am and I have not left in the march of posters of the stigma,
I am here and I await you when the pits of misfortune bite,
and in this hunger the wheat field offered the other day is explored bone by bone,
absent the sun on the pale face each humerus is held,
Every dagger on this body at the mention of him, I’m not gone
I only wait for the ranger of my eyes,
I do not break and this and another exodus does not hurt me,
the martyrdom camp hurts me,
I am hurt by the pain of those who suffer,
oh, the smell of the fallen! the silent torment,
the grotesque thing to call you humanity between the nails
that you slightly managed the other day
oh, wonder to call me the sting
…and I haven’t left.
Silvia Ortiz Writer-poet, 2022