Sábado.

Can't stop won't stop.

Autumn en inglés

Leaves flying far away
covering my eyes
with dust
the sun shines
through the branches
black bag wandering
the click clack of my bike
the sound of the leaves
under my boots
orange, brown and blue
the wind in my face
the heat under my sweater
I run, I run away
my scarf ondeando like a cape
my scarf full of fall

Spirits of the Dead

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

I

Thy soul shall find itself alone

’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

       II

Be silent in that solitude,

   Which is not loneliness—for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

   In life before thee are again

In death around thee—and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

       III

The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—

And the stars shall look not down

From their high thrones in the heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given—

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

       IV

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,

Now are visions ne’er to vanish;

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more—like dew-drop from the grass.

       V

The breeze—the breath of God—is still—

And the mist upon the hill,

Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token—

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries!

Frágil (idad)

Revisar las notas de mi diario
es como visitar el cementerio,
darle tres golpecitos a la lápida
y saludar,
como si la otra persona
(o las cenizas, o los huesos o los gusanos)
escucharan y entendieran

Hoy me encontré una tortuga (viva)
en el pasto
quería cruzar la calle
yo se lo impedía con mis pies

Crucé Beverly a toda velocidad
con una tortuga
en mi canasta

Qué absurdo suena todo

Lo escribo otra vez

Crucé dos avenidas y
quince cuadras 
en mi bicicleta azul pastel
con una tortuga en
mi canasta de mimbre.

Qué volátil es todo

Cinco minutos después
de no querer despertar
y la tortuga habría acabado
debajo de un carro.

Qué frágil es todo

Qué frágil es escribirle esto
a alguien que ya no lee
a alguien que ya no es más que
huesos, cenizas y gusanos.

Nocturne

Nocturne

BY LOUISE GLÜCK


Mother died last night,

Mother who never dies.


Winter was in the air,

many months away

but in the air nevertheless.


It was the tenth of May.

Hyacinth and apple blossom

bloomed in the back garden.


We could hear

Maria singing songs from Czechoslovakia —


How alone I am —

songs of that kind.



How alone I am,

no mother, no father —

my brain seems so empty without them.



Aromas drifted out of the earth;

the dishes were in the sink,

rinsed but not stacked.


Under the full moon

Maria was folding the washing;

the stiff  sheets became

dry white rectangles of  moonlight.

How alone I am, but in music

my desolation is my rejoicing.


It was the tenth of May

as it had been the ninth, the eighth.


Mother slept in her bed,

her arms outstretched, her head

balanced between them.

Untranslatable.

Komorebi

"The sort of scattered, dapple light effect that happens when sunlight shines in through trees"

http://www.boredpanda.com/untranslatable-words-found-in-translation-anjana-iyer/

Cambia, todo cambia.

Tiempo de cambios, tiempo de limpieza, de desechar, de renovar. Todas las noches sueño con barcos que se estrellan en la nada. Sueño con pedazos de sueños que se repiten. Dos años después pienso que es hora de volver a escribir. Seguirá siendo ramajes, afirman. Seguirán siendo los ramajes que se tejen con estas letras despistadas y torpes. Escribir, escuchando las mismas canciones una y otra vez, escribir hasta el cansancio, hasta que duelan los dedos, hasta que las letras del computador dejen de alumbrar, hasta que el sol se asome por la ventana de la sala. Escribir hasta curar, cicatrizar, curar, suturar, c a u t e r i z a r. Así como los sueños que se repiten y se doblan y se cuecen y se interrumpen. Llenar este espacio de sinónimos y adjetivos. Llenar este espacio de repeticiones e historias de mi vida en una ciudad en constante m o v i m i e n t o.

Curar, cambiar, cicatrizar. Volver a ese lugar de confianza y seguridad. Volver al vientre materno, regresar, suturar.

C'est fini.

Escribir quizá algo más feliz, un año de búsqueda y no encontrar más que puertas cerradas. Salir, respirar, contar las escaleras, respirar otra vez y correr 3.74 kilómetros mientras una voz en los audifonos me repite: "you can stop, your workout is complete" y yo pienso… is it really? Correr, contar los pasos, contar las puertas que se cierran, respirar otra vez, no tan rápido para no desmayarme, para que la presión no se alborote, para que los nervios no se desborden. Escribir, con el reloj al lado y contar, contar las letras, contar las puertas, contar esta vida que a veces asfixia.

This time tomorrow…

This time tomorrow where will we be
On a spaceship somewhere sailing across an empty sea
This time tomorrow what will we know
Well we still be here watching an in-flight movie show
I'll leave the sun behind me and watch the clouds as they sadly pass me by
Seven miles below ma I can see the world and it ain't so big at all
This time tomorrow what will we see
Field full of houses, endless rows of crowded streets
I don't where I'm going, I don't want to see
I feel the world below me looking up at me
Leave the sun behind me, and watch the clouds as they sadly pass me by
And I'm in perpetual motion and the world below doesn't matter much to me
This time tomorrow where will we be
On a spaceship somewhere sailing across any empty sea
This time tomorrow, this time tomorrow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtNP5U_Khd0

I call her HER, every time someone shouts "beautiful bike" "lovely" "I love it" I smile back, proudly. That's HER and she is pastel blue, and has a basket made of wood. We go to the lake, we buy fish together, we ride, smoothly through the park. We go for wine and fruits, Her and I, riding for miles and miles.