Versión libre: agosto 2009

El instinto me dice: huye.
La razón lo confirma: huye.
Mi voluntad se suscribe: huye.
Sólo aquello que no sé nombrar
quiere permanecer en la casa del fuego.

by John Burnside

She loved the wet whisper of silt
when tidewater seeped away
and the estuary rose to the town
through copper light,

a tender of glass and scales
and driftwood varnished with salt,
a circle she walked for miles
in search of shells,

picking starfish from a sheet
of silver tension, puzzled by the trails
of viscera, the threads of bloodless meat
and resurrected forms that had no names

but offered kinship, memory, regret,
a pulse between the water and her hand,
the feel of something old and buried deep,
heartbeat and vision quickening the sand.

Versión libre

domingo, 9 de agosto de 2009

Un poema rebuscado para un momento cualquiera