Esta es parte de mi creación artística donde uso pequeños formatos en papel para dibujar con tinta negra, lápiz y carboncillo. También
he agregado algunas poesías para realzar el intento creativo con otros objetos tridimensionales en este caso máscaras hechas en papel mâché.
This is part of my artistic creation where I use small formats of paper with black ink, pencil and charcoal. Also, I have added some poems.
El tedio cae como la tarde entre mis dedos, nada lo detiene cubre las paredes con la patina caduca de los óxidos del tiempo, y sus colores se confunden con el trepidar de mis pasos cansados, los sonidos reverberan entre los viejos troncos y en la distancia todo se diluye entre los sueños.
El tedio abre su boca displicente tragándose las formas que aún se dejan ver con la luz de la luna, nada puedo hacer, la languidez de mi cuerpo me dejó abandonado cuando estaba a punto de encontrar las incógnitas depositadas en las runas, se que será dificil alcanzar los contornos de tu cuerpo oculto detrás de los cristales.
El tedio deposita las melancolías entre las viñas, mientras los pájaros vuelan esquivando las nubes, y mis ojos vacios no son capaces de distinguir los colores del amanecer.
Tedium.
The boredom falls as the evening
between my fingers,
nothing stops him
covers the walls
with the patina expired
with the oxides of time,
and its colors are confused
with the trepidation of my tired steps
the sounds reverberate
between the old trunks
and the distance around
diluted everything between the dreams.
The boredom opens his mouth indifferent
swallowing the forms that still
let to see the moonlight,
nothing I can do,
the languor
of my body let me abandon
when he was about to find
the unknowns deposited in the runes
I know will be difficult to reach
the contours of your body
hidden behind the glasses.
The tedium deposits the melancholies
among the vineyards, while the birds
fly dodging the cloud
and my empty eyes are not able to distinguish the colors
muertos
ahogándose en el marasmo
de su alma destruida por
los golpes que caían desde
el ámbito abyecto
de la oscuridad.
Lo llevaron a otras
dimensiones de la locura,
donde la ira se mezcla
con la sed de la sangre,
el miedo con las alucinaciones
de la vida,
la muerte con el intervalo
del viento,
el estar sentado con las horas
interminables
sin saber
donde te llevan,
lo trajeron amarrado
a los helados fierros
de los vuelos del misterio,
aprovechando las leyes
del caos en el mundo
verosimil de la muerte.
Le arrancaron las uñas,
uno a uno sus dientes
se resbalaron entre
el azul de sus labios,
le abrieron su pecho
entre gritos y el furor
tanático,
las ampollas en sus cuerpo
brotaban
entre el silencio de la noche
y los baldes de agua hirviendo.
Desde aquí, con el abrazo
de la ilusión de este mundo
real te saludo con mi torso
Detained in a bottle.
Once upon a time a man
arrested in a bottle
brought from remote lands
carried as ballast
in a war machine,
was buried in the darkest
space of our consciences,
in sinister dungeon
bound with meat from other
dead,
drowning in the morass
of his soul destroyed by
the blows fall from
the heinous range of darkness.
He was taken to other
dimensions of madness,
where the anger is mixed
with a thirst for blood,
the fears with hallucinations
of life
the death with the interval
of the wind,
sitting with the endless times
without knowing
where they take you,
they brought him tied
to the cold irons
of the fly of mysteries,
taking advantage of the laws
of chaos in the world
credible of the death.
He pulled the nails,
their teeth one by one
slips between
the blue of his lips,
they opened his chest
amid shouts
and the rages of Thanatos,
the blisters on his body
break out
between the silence of the night
and the buckets of boiling water.
From here, with the hug
of the illusion from this real world
I salute you with my chest
discovered.
La Fiesta de Sangre (Yawar Fiesta en quechua poshispánico), es una celebración que ocurre una vez al año en el Perú en el cual las fuerzas de la naturaleza son puesta a prueba. Fiesta que plagada de sincretismo deja saber al mundo la lucha entre el conquistador y los habitantes originarios, fiesta llena de la vitalidad y de colorido, y de una significación muy profunda enraizada en la conquista.
Esta festividad fue descrita por el escritor peruano José Maria Arguedas Argueda en la localidad de Puquio, donde el escritor en forma magistral muestra de como los indígenas triunfan culturalmente en contra de la opresión de los mistis, quienes se apropiaron de las tierras aprovechándose de su ignorancia con la consabida sojuzgación de los habitantes originarios de esas tierras, forzándolos a la humillación y pobreza.
Desde la invasión de los españoles, han surgido en el ahora llamado hombre peruano, intrincadas y a veces encarnizadas luchas interiores, propias de un mestizaje que para él han sido difíciles de manejar. Por un lado, las creencias andinas que sus antepasados le han transmitido de generación en generación, y por otro lado, lo español, un elemento extraño que un día apareció entre sus venas, y que inevitablemente lo puso en un dilema que en muchos casos aún existe.
Uno de estos casos es el Yawar Fiesta o Fiesta de Sangre, que a través del tiempo ha transformado la afición española por los toros, en una expresión particular del mestizaje peruano, llegando extrañamente a unir elementos tan distantes de la cultura andina y occidental como el Cóndor, figura sagrada a lo largo de la historia de los pueblos andinos y el toro, representación de la cultura española.
Esta fiesta se realiza aún en algunos pueblos en fechas que son motivo de fiesta, pero especialmente el 28 de Julio, Día de la Independencia del Perú, pero comienza mucho antes, cuando el Mayordomo (persona comprometida para la organización de la fiesta) decide que es el momento de la captura del cóndor, entre copas de chicha (bebida a base de maíz) y licor, compromete a un experto para que traiga vivo a este mensajero de los Dioses, a la fiesta. Se tiene que realizar las ofrendas respectivas para que los Dioses de las montañas propicien la captura, los mecanismos son diferentes, uno de los mas comunes consiste en el sacrificio de un caballo colocado sobre en un lugar estrecho donde, para el “Apu Kuntur” o condor sagrado sea fácil descender, pero difícil remontar el vuelo por falta de corrientes de aire, luego, la espera puede durar varios días, la razón es que el cóndor posee una prudencia natural que no le permite posarse sin estar completamente seguro de que no hay peligro, una vez en tierra esta mítica ave se alimenta de varios kilos de carne lo cual lo hace mas pesado, es en este momento cuando los comuneros salen de sus escondites enarbolando mantas o ponchos y se lanzan a la captura.
La víspera de la fiesta el cóndor hace su entrada al pueblo, es recibido con las consideraciones que un personaje de su categoría merece, es alimentado con la mejor carne y solo bebe el mejor licor o chicha, participa de todas las actividades cívicas como una autoridad del pueblo, talvez presintiendo el desafió que tendrá que librar al día siguiente.
Los toros ya están listos para salir al ruedo, y el que muestra mayor bravura es capturado por los comuneros, presintiendo de alguna forma su destino lucha de forma tenaz contra los lazos, pero es inútil, el cóndor es literalmente cocido a su espalda, las notas tristes de las wakawaqras (cornetas hechas de cuernos de toro) anuncian el duelo, de pronto, una imagen entre trágica y majestuosa surge, el toro encabritado da saltos enfurecidos por liberarse de los picotazos desgarradores del cóndor, el encuentro de dos fuerzas telúricas opuestas se produce en medio de movimientos indescriptibles, los jóvenes mas valientes de los poblados cercanos entran al ruedo ya sea con mantas o ponchos para enfrentarse al toro, este en medio de saltos y a veces de resignación intenta tomar la vida de los improvisados toreros, los cuales muestran todo su coraje en cada movimiento, algunos dejaran su sangre derramada en el ruedo en comunión con la del toro como ofrenda a la tierra que a ambos da el sustento.
Han pasado varios minutos de una lucha sin tregua en el ruedo y finalmente liberan a ambos rivales uno del otro, el toro no es sacrificado y el cóndor es agasajado y cuidado hasta el día siguiente cuando en medio de grandes ceremonias será liberado para que lleve el mensaje del pueblo de los Dioses.
Si ocurre la muerte del cóndor en la fiesta, esto se reconoce como una tragedia, que traerá desdichas e infortunio a los habitantes.
Esta fiesta es una muestra de las muchas formas en que se realiza la lucha intercultural en el Perú, desde la época de la invasión española, en medio de ceremonias españolas el hombre andino usando el sincretismo desvela sus creencias, sus sentimientos, anhelos e ilusiones, a pesar de su evidente mestizaje, una parte de él se resiste a dejar de ser el habitante originario, recordando en todo momento con nostalgia su pasado.
Yawar fiesta.
The Feast of Blood (post hispanic Yawar Fiesta en quechua), is a celebration that happens once a year in Peru in which the forces of nature are put to the test. Fiesta plagued by syncretism that lets the world know the struggle between the conquerors and the original inhabitants, the party full of vitality and color, and a very deep meaning rooted in the conquest.
This festival was described by the Peruvian writer Jose Maria Arguedas Arguedas in the town of Puquio , where the writer as masterly example of the indigenous cultural triumphant against the oppression of Mistis, who took over the land by taking advantage of their ignorance with the proverbial subjugation of the original inhabitants of these lands, forcing them to humiliation and poverty.
Since the invasion of the Spaniards, have now emerged in the Peruvian man named, intricate and sometimes fierce internal struggles, of a mixture that have been difficult for him to handle. On one hand, the Andean belief that their ancestors have passed down from generation to generation, and on the other hand, Spanish as a foreign element that once appeared among his veins, and that inevitably brought him into a dilemma that in many cases still exists.
One such case is the Yawar Fiesta or Fiesta de Sangre, which over time has transformed the Spanish passion for bullfighting, a particular expression of mestization in Peru, coming to join things so strangely distant from the western Andean culture and the Condor, sacred figure throughout the history of the Andean peoples and the bull, representing the Spanish culture.
This festival is still in some villages on dates that are cause for celebration, but especially the July 28 Independence Day of Peru, but it starts much earlier, when the Butler (person committed to the organization of the party) decides that is the time of capture of the condor, among glasses of chicha (corn drink) and liquor, commits an expert to bring live to this messenger of the gods, to the party. You have to perform the respective offerings to the gods of the mountains provide the capture, the mechanisms are different, one of the most common sacrifice is placed on a horse in a place where close to the "Apu Kuntur" or sacred condor down easy, but difficult to trace the flight due to lack of air currents, then, the wait can last several days, the reason is that the condor has a natural caution that does not let you rest without being completely sure that there is no danger, once this mythical land bird feeds on several kilos of meat which makes it heavier, it is at this point that the community come out of their hiding places brandishing blankets or ponchos and hit the catch.
On the eve of the feast the condor makes his entrance to the village is greeted with the view that a person worthy of its category, is fed with the best meat and only drink the best liquor or chicha, participates in all activities as a civic authority of people, perhaps having a presentiment of the challenge will be fought the next day.
The bulls are ready to exit the ring, and showing more bravery is captured by the commoners,anticipating somehow his destiny by tenacious struggle against the bonds, but it is useless, the condor is literally cooked to your back, sad notes of wakawaqras (horns made of bull's horns) announced grief, suddenly, a picture emerges from tragic and majestic, the raging bull jumps to liberate themselves from the wrenching peck of the condor, the meeting of two opposing forces telluric occurs in the midst of indescribable movements, the young brave of the nearby towns entering the ring with either blankets or ponchos to face the bull, this jumps amid resignation and sometimes tries to take the life of improvised bullfighters, which show all their courage in every move, some left their blood in the bullring in communion with the bull as an offering to the land that gives sustenance to both.
They spent several minutes in a relentless fight in the ring and finally release both rivals of each other, the bull is not killed and the condor is treated and care until the next day when in the midst of major ceremonies will be released to maintain the message from the people of the Gods.
If death occurs on the feast of the condor, it is recognized as a tragedy, which will bring misery and misfortune to the inhabitants.
This party is a sample of the many ways in which the fight takes place in the intercultural Peru since the time of the Spanish invasion, amid ceremonies Andean Spanish man using syncretism reveals their beliefs, feelings, desires and dreams, despite its obvious mix, a part of it refuses to stop being the original inhabitants, always remembering his past with nostalgia.
He left us the gentlemanly
warrior of the words,
your departure had
the miracle of halting
the strives for a second,
million eyes
draw your poems in the infinity,
you were the loyal companion
of the just struggle, solidarity
to those who fell
in the street trenches.
We have no time
for tears
but that if ...
you leave us the
tools of your voice
powerful weapons
with which we conquer
the simple things of infinite
the primitive forms
of our dreams,
and the willingness to
confront those who
believe there are the owners
of the language
You transformed in
the majestic condor flying
the winds, in the solemn
silence of the mountains,
you transformed in
the puma of the sunset
that sneaky custody
the dream of the Pachamama
you transformed in
the feathered serpent
to order the time,
navigate our rivers
to bring the light
colors and recreation
of chimeras.
Will be that when I awake I feel
the rhythm of the sun caressing
those doors destroyed by
these times of storms
and desolation,
that silent in the avatar
of the facts of life
will recorded in the dull flavor
of the wood his scratches
the silence of the wind,
the cries of the compañeras,
the patina of rain,
the turgidity of the moisture.
Will be that when I awake
my numbs limbs
may turn to the voice of
wishes to take further
more to the times,
I hope to cross the threshold
of groomed the death that
waiting with their mouth wide open
the unfortunates who still
have not been massacred.
The destroyed doors
swaying with the dried knock
of the wind that crouching
try to fill with sand
the instruments of torture,
the laughter frozen by the blood,
the echo of the cry for help.
I hope that when I awake
I can see the monuments
of my deceased.
I will stop thinking about your face
which was full of laughter
and those things will left you
the sweet taste in the morning
when I see it, the memories
jump on my skin, leaving
small drops of blood.
Your face reminds me
the imperceptible flight
of the hummingbird
among the fingers of my hand,
the stampede of horses
with the line of memories,
the dry blow of the ax,
the rain that gentle wets
the stones of the road,
the sound of the keys,
the laughter of children.
Your face raised from
the treetops
leaving a trail
of wet wood
that could wrap the passions
which were oscillating
between the fog and the ocean.
Love is playing with the edges
of the rocks in a song
of voices and desires, tears
and laughter that flooding the borders
of the forest where for the first
time I saw your nakedness
between the reflections of the moon
who refused to leave our space,
she, enigmatic participated
with our hands down
the wet surface of our
bodies.
Love has left its mark on the fire
of your kisses, at that instance
you become the rage,
in the gale, on the ground breaking
by the blows of life
the endless rhythm of your hips
the steely brightness of your eyes,
bled by the cry in the night,
for your nails tear down the silence
of the desires hidden in the folds
of our dark skin.
Love hits the borders of reason,
drowned with howls of pain
visceral tear to sleep
of birds.
He scratches the open wounds
by the blow of the teeth
soaked in the saliva of the passions.
The phoenix hovers over
the clutter of the clothes.
You and I look at the news from 11pm
and we see the death taking everything.
Al partir, dejaré mi cuerpo soltar
de sus ataduras todo el ropaje
todo en el parece que se pudre
este es el tiempo para amortajar
a nuestros mártires,
es el tiempo para blanquear
las murallas pues vendrán los seres
al pillaje en el clima más repudiable
todos tratan de escapar a sus miradas
inquisitoriales.
Mañana dejaré mis alientos
para trasuntar piel, sangre, esperanza
en la epidermis de la tierra todavia
rondando alrededor de mis
esperanzas, dejaré mis vaticinios
romperé los cristales que envuelven
la coraza de los asesinos,
lloraré junto a las vestimentas
de esos que un día le arrebataron
las entrañas con la punta de las garras,
vendré desde el corazón del maiz
para sacrificar las estrellas del poniente
para instaurar la paz de los corazones,
la tranquilidad de las esperanzas,
la caricia pausada de los sueños,
el nacimiento de tus ojos en el mar.
Al partir, solo llevaré enredado
en mi pelo la dulzura del viento
golpeando los naranjos,
el salobre olor de los peces,
el golpe audaz de los tambores,
el confinamiento de la guitarra
en la mirada de la luna,
la mirada suave de las aves
volando hacia el norte,
la sonrisa tibia de tu boca.
Let.
At depart, I let my body drop
their ties from all the dress,
everything appears that rots
this is the time to shrouds
our martyrs,
is the time to launder
the walls as people come
at looting in the most
abominable weather,
everyone tries to escape their
inquisitorial gaze.
Tomorrow I will leave my breaths
to exude skin, blood, hope
the epidermis of the earth still
prowling around my hopes,
I will let my predictions,
I will break the glass that surrounds
the breastplate of the murderers,
I will cry next to the clothing
of those that one day seized
the guts with the tip of the claws,
I will come from the heart of corn
to sacrifice the stars of the west
to bring peace to the hearts,
tranquility of the hopes,
The slow caress of the dreams
the birth of your eyes in the sea.
At depart, only will get tangled
in my hair the gentle wind
hitting the oranges tree,
the salty smell of fish,
the bold stroke of the drums,
the confinement of the guitar
in the eyes of the moon,
the soft the look of the birds
flying north,
the warm smile on your face.
I happened to trace
a drawing among the trees
to join the points
dissolved by the rain
and give a sense to my spirit
lost in between the wars,
I intend to create transverse
lines and hands reaching
the faces lost in travel
without no return.
It will be an outline of elements
scattered in the space,
remote caves,
tired hands,
to keep one’s eyes open,
turgid breasts,
children beheaded,
charities unfulfilled,
bomb of fragments,
predatory priests,
mass of the tortured,
full laughter.
I want to recreate with the colors
sepia from my life the majestic
movement of the mountains
pulling up from the shadow
of the moon,
the sound of
crickets,
appalling howl
of lions in heat,
the arpeggio of the sand
hitting the beach.
Draw the surrounding of your body
to create instruments
of life.
The axes that equidistant
from the border of your eyes
to the banks of the oceans
swaying the distances
where the ships are lost
in the route of the rose
of the winds.
Where the sailors entangled
by their nautical charts
and nocturlabios,
they will not spot you
by the fog of their minds,
they get lost between
the storms and the sargasso
sailing adrift
at the moment when
the memory forget
the cooerdinate
from the heart.
el metal de las voces rugen
en el torrente trayendo
los instrumentos solidarios
de verdades muy antiguas.
No basta ser,
decir la verdad,
abrir la boca.
The bandage in the eyes. for Elena Varela
Not be enough,
tell the truth
open the mouth,
sigh
not even thinking
the greedy hands of
the laughing stock of justice
know how
to let you speak, you can not
film, you can not
show what you do,
therefore I have spoken
of respect for the law
And
that why I condemn you, do not talk,
I do not want to see that sneer
in your face of saint
we will condemn you
How this
that the struggle of the Indians
is correct?
If they steal, kill
and violate my sacred territory,
you can not say anything
you're a tiny woman,
a terrorist.
In my environment, do not dare
I will trough my centurions
I swear that you will repent....
Not be enough,
tell the truth
open the mouth
other voices, Elena
come down from the deep
riverbanks
bringing the garment of the truth
newly clean with the hit
of the sand,
from the high mountains
the tutelary gods
collect the rumor
the metal roar of voices
bringing in the flood
instruments of solidarity
from ancient truths.
El se decidió a viajar a la guerra entre lo que decían y los que lo maldecían, el buscaba la respuesta correcta pensaba que el sol alumbraba tibio y suave para todos, se sumergió en la arena suave, cálida, mientras, otros trataban de cultivar la flor originaria de su patria, entre risas y el disimulo.
El se decidió a caminar entre lo que decían que eran balas que matan, con su sonrisa miraba los objetos en las feria regateaba precios, pero la sangre en su mancha universal cubria la luna y el sol, las noticias anuncian “more troops deployed to Tibet” el en su cadencia miraba sin tristeza el rostro de los niños, “The troops in Irak only bring peace” anuncian los prevaricadores en los periódicos the department itself detected the instances of "imprudent curiosity," y asi construyen su nuevo presidente entre mentiras y bromas.
It was decided.
He decided to travel the war
between those that said it
and those that curse
he look for the correct answer
he thought that the sun lit
warm and gentle to all,
he submerged in the sand soft, warm,
while others trait
to cultivate the flower
originates from their homeland, between laughs and dissimulation.
He decided to walk between
what they said they were bullets that kill,
with her smile looked objects
in the exhibition barging prices,
but the blood universal in its spot
covered the moon and the sun,
news announce
"Deployed more troops to Tibet"
he in his cadence
looking without sadness the face
of children
"The troops in Iraq only bring peace"
advertise prevaricators in the newspapers, moreover
Perhaps from those mountains lost to the sense we could see other lands that at unfold in the yearning of its expected will leave to enter the voice of our struggles leaving aside the bitter taste of death. And the wind alone can not lift the rock thunder crashing into the distant cliffs, only men that came from other dreams abandoned in the ephemeral pillows of the dictators may reverse the exhausted steps by the predictions of the Sibyls. Perhaps from those mountains pale by the singing of the dew will lifted the song of shepherds bringing freshly printed smells in their clothing, and your eyes open with the light wind that comes down from their throats will distinguish these shades of stubborn green invading adjoining moorland.
I should someday understand why my life is scatters between the sinuous curves of rivers, and how do I get to dampen the essence of my skin with the horrors? But where I wet it? I find it banal, therefore, when I want
to wish to clarify this equation I slid in the oxide of the streets. I wish someday understand the tiresome steps from the shadows covering the crown of trees, wanting disentangle the old enigmas drawn into the dawn. More often than not I lost a part of life among to rush about and watch over sleepless kisses, pursuing with my eyes the passage of migratory birds or trying to reach the top of my reasons.
From the depths of the bowels a beast opens its decomposed fauces hateful, revives the pain, do not let rest the hearts frozen by the cold of the ill will, From his mouth comes to spreading the stinking smell of lies, tries to revive the slow cadence of death in hours endless in their dens of torture this malign thing do not want staunch the blood that flows from the hearts of mothers, daughters, they want to shoot again those who shot a hundred times, they want to launch from the immense blue space bodies mutilated, it's time to leave them alone, they are our skin sealed in the song of hopes, their names will carve the trails of all dreams.
Las uñas asperas de la noche descascaráron la vieja pintura que cubría la vetusta muralla donde cientos de miradas día a día nunca dejaron de percibir la impúdica luz de las sombras clamando por el perdón de los que una vez fueron fusilados. La pátina indeleble que cubrió los crimenes no quiso ser cómplice, ya que cada cierto tiempo los tonos exudados de la muerte teñian las imperfeciones iridiscente de su impronta. los ojos de aquellos que viajan a diario nunca dejaron de prestar atención a la parsimonía de esos agujeros que como crucigrama y en un idioma hermético indicaban los dolores de aquella tarde, entregando a cada uno un mensaje lleno de incógnitas. Las aves ajenas al dolor hacia tiempo no detenían su vuelo en las tejas ajadas. Pero la noche, ajena borraba impertérrita con la humedad de sus lágrimas los ojos aterrados.
Wall.
The rough nails of the night shell the old paint that cover the old wall where hundreds of eyes day to day never left perceive the lewd light of the shadows crying out for the forgiveness of that once were shot. The patina indelible covered the crimes did not want to be an accomplice, because every so often the shades exudates
of the death had dye the iridescent imperfections in its mark. The eyes of those who travel daily never ceased to provide attention to the parsimony of these holes that as crossword and a hermetic language indicating pain of that afternoon, delivered to each a full message of unknowns.
The birds strange to the pain they did not stop their flight in the whiter tile. But the night outside undaunted erased with its moisture of their tears the terrified eyes.
Among the cries and shelling some birds were able to uplift their flight bringing between their peak the metal flavor from the blood spilled, insects wake up with the roar of the voracious war machines, sowing the embrace terror of death leaving on the horizon only the lethal pain of the cries, the messages bathed in the heartbreak traveled the world dauntless without surprises in the eyes just to say Why? Why? Why? Birds of extermination cut the air with his onomatopoeia crime leaving its shadow projected in the eyes confused of the children, while on the floor, the dust still alive from the ruins cloud tears of these mothers beaten for the scythe that calm killed biased the neck of the children. Among the cries and shelling I tried to decipher perverse evil that dialogue among screens, black robes, and mature spirits in the agonies of the ideas.
We see between the pine birds of truths, tremulous winds, distant melodies playing instruments of solidarity, we see your picture galloping between the guillatunes, the crystal-clear sound of your voice slips between pastures crying out for land seized by the bread steal from day to day, for the children neglected, your hands transform in a tiny ship pass through soft skirmishes at Imperial taking without rest the message of the righteous. We see between the pine the passage of the warriors touching the gentle curves of your forehead, to offering the nobility of your people.
Me parece deleznable que nuestros políticos quieran reabrir las heridas que nos cruzan el corazón y toda nuestra geografía, creo que deberían tener un poco de piedad con todos los que han sufrido la perdida de sus seres queridos y compañeros. Me parece que el odio incubado no les permite respetar el dolor de una gran parte de nuestra población. Me adhiero a esa protesta general y nacional que se deja escuchar en nuestra patria.
Dejen que descansen.
Desde lo mas hondo de las entrañas
una bestia descompuesta abre sus
fauces llenas de odio, revive los
dolores causados, no deja descansar
los corazones ateridos por el frio
de las inquinas.
Desde sus fauces sale a esparcir
el maloliente olor de las mentiras,
trata de revivir la pausada
cadencia de la muerte en la horas
interminables en sus antros de tortura,
esta cosa maligna no quiere restañar
la sangre que emana de los
corazones de madres, hijas,
quiere nuevamente fusilar
a esos que fusiló cien veces,
quiere volver a lanzar desde el inmenso
espacio azul los cuerpos mutilados,
es tiempo que los dejen, ellos son
nuestra piel sellada en el canto
de las esperanzas, sus nombres
van labrando los senderos
de todos los sueños.
Let them rest.
From the depths of the bowels a beast opens its decomposed fauces hateful, revives the pain, do not let rest the hearts frozen by the cold of the ill will, From his mouth comes to spreading the stinking smell of lies, tries to revive the slow cadence of death in hours endless in their dens of torture this malign thing do not want staunch the blood that flows from the hearts of mothers, daughters, they want to shoot again those who shot a hundred times, they want to launch from the immense blue space bodies mutilated, it's time to leave them alone , they are our skin sealed in the song
of hopes, their names will carve the trails of all dreams.
Es un día más donde el vacio de las cosas en forma atolondrada tratan de escapar a los mortíferos sonidos de la muerte que en vestiduras de metal y su guadaña reparte destrucción a trochemoche. Es un día más de aquellos sueños requebrajados por el rodar de los tanques, incluso las flores trataban de esquivar los sonidos venidos desde otros horizontes. Es un día más, y los pasos de esos niños, ya no dejarán sus marcas en el polvo del camino, ellos trataban de caminar entre el sigilo del viento y la sombra de los alerces. Es un día más de llantos y desgracias, de bombas estallando directas al corazón de madres ensimismadas en el cuidado de sus hijos, el llanto a perdido su significado en este día más.
[5].jpg "La golondrina (Etching grabado)")
