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Thursday, July 07, 2011

Mi pueblo

Mi pueblo…

el viento abrio las puertas con un golpe seco
dejando entrar con ímpetu los sueños
que por un largo tiempo permanecieron
colgados  de las rama de las araucarias,
sueños de antaño, de machis exudando
las libertades arraigadas en la tierra,
derechos empapados a la roca madre
que nadie te los puede arrebatar,
ni los audaces ladrones de corbata
ni de los que se nutren de los despojos,
o de los traidores embelesados
en el brillo del dorado.

El viento meció las rukas, despertándolas
del largo invierno anunciando la llegada
de los soles, las manos se alzaron
en la rogativa y los ojos cubrieron
las distancias de los sembríos
y el blanco metal elástico en su gracia
se dejo transformar en la magía
de los trarilonkos.

El viento con su lengua de fuego
besa las cosechas, acaricia el suave
rostro de los ríos, y el sonido
de los árboles mecen sus ojos.
mientras, en la tierra el canelo
trenza sus raices formando
la red invisible de manos solidarias.

El viento sacude el cabello hirsuto
de los muchachos que ajenos
a los miedos juegan a la sombra
 de sus dioses.


My people ...

The wind open doors with a thud
letting in vehemently the dreams
that for a long time remained
hanging from the branch of araucarias,
ancient dreams, from machis exuding
freedoms rooted in the earth,
rights soaked to bedrock
that nobody can take from you,
nor the daring robbers with tie
or those that feed despoiling,
or traitors spellbound
in the brightness of gold.

The wind rocked the rukas, waking them
from the long winter heralding the arrival
of the sun, the hands raised
in supplication and eyes covered
the distances of the crops
and the silver metal, elastic
was allowed to transform into the magic
of trarilonko.

The wind with its tongue of fire
kisses the crops caresses the soft
face of the rivers and the sound
the trees swaying his eyes.
While, on the ground the cinnamon
braid her roots forming
the invisible network of solidarity hands.

The wind shakes the shaggy hair
of the guys for reason beyond their control
of fears play to the shadow
of their gods.

My people ...

The wind open doors with a thud
letting in vehemently the dreams
that for a long time remained
hanging from the branch of araucarias,
ancient dreams, from machis exuding
freedoms rooted in the earth,
rights soaked to bedrock
that nobody can take from you,
nor the daring robbers with tie
or those that feed despoiling,
or traitors spellbound
in the brightness of gold.

The wind rocked the rukas, waking them
from the long winter heralding the arrival
of the sun, the hands raised
in supplication and eyes covered
the distances of the crops
and the silver metal, elastic
was allowed to transform into the magic
of trarilonko.

The wind with its tongue of fire
kisses the crops caresses the soft
face of the rivers and the sound
the trees swaying his eyes.
While, on the ground the cinnamon
braid her roots forming
the invisible network of solidarity hands.

The wind shakes the shaggy hair
of the guys for reason beyond their control
of fears play to the shadow
of their gods.
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