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Reasons for his Absence

30 Oct



Reasons for his Absence

by Darío Jaramillo Agudelo (Colombia)


If anyone asks after him,

tell them that perhaps he’ll never come back, or else

on returning no one will recognise his face;

tell them also that he left no one any reasons,

that he had a secret message, something important to tell them

but he’s forgotten what it was.

Tell them that he is falling, in a different way, and in another

part of the world,

tell them he is still not happy,

and if that makes some of them happy, tell them also that he left

with his heart empty and dry

and tell them that this doesn’t matter, not even for pity or pardon’s sake

and that he himself doesn’t suffer on this account,

and that now he doesn’t believe in anything or anyone, far less

in himself,

that from seeing so many things, his sight dwindled, and now,

blind, he needs touch,

tell them that once, on a sunny day, he had the faint glimmer

of a faith in God,

tell them that once there were words that made him believe in love

and that later he learned love lasts

as long as it takes to say a word.

Tell them that like a balloon punctured by gunshot,

his soul plunged toward the hell within,

and he isn’t even in despair

and tell them that sometimes he thinks this inexorable calm

is his punishment;

tell them that he doesn’t know what sin he has committed,

and that he considers the blame he drags around the world

just another aspect of the problem

and tell them that on certain insomniac nights and even on others

during which he believes he has dreamt it,

he is afraid that the blame might be the only part of himself

that is left

and tell them that on certain luminous mornings

and in the middle of afternoons of merciful lust and also

on rainy nights drunk with wine

he feels a certain puerile joy in his innocence

and tell them that on these blissful occasions he talks to himself.

Tell them that if some day he returns, he will come with two cherries

for eyes

and a blackberry bush seeding in his stomach and a snake coiled

around his neck.

And nor will he expect anything from anyone and he will earn his living


as a fortune-teller, reading the cards and celebrating strange ceremonies

in which he will not believe

and tell them that he made off with some superstitions, three fetishes,

a few misunderstood instances of complicity

and the memory of two or three faces that always come back to him

in the darkness

and nothing.


Razones del ausente

Si alguien les pregunta por él,

díganle que quizá no vuelva nunca o que si regresa

acaso ya nadie reconozca su rostro;

díganle también que no dejó razones para nadie,

que tenía un mensaje secreto, algo importante que decirles

pero que lo ha olvidado.

Díganle que ahora está cayendo, de otro modo y en otra parte del mundo,

díganle que todavía no es feliz,

si esto hace feliz a alguno de ellos; díganle también que se fue con el

corazón vacío y seco

y díganle que eso no importa ni siquiera para la lástima o el perdón

y ni él mismo sufre por eso,

que ya no cree en nada ni en nadie y mucho menos en él mismo,

que tantas cosas que vio apagaron su mirada y ahora, ciego,

necesita del tacto,

díganle que alguna vez tuvo un leve rescoldo de fe en Dios, en un día de


díganle que hubo palabras que le hicieron creer en el amor

y luego supo que el amor dura lo que dura una palabra.

Díganle que como un globo de aire perforado a tiros,

su alma fue cayendo hasta el infierno que lo vive y que ni siquiera

está desesperado

y díganle que a veces piensa que esa calma inexorable es su castigo;

díganle que ignora cuál es su pecado

y que la culpa que lo arrastra por el mundo la considera apenas otro

dato del problema

y díganle que en ciertas noches de insomnio y aun en otras en que cree

haberlo soñado,

teme que acaso la culpa sea la única parte de sí mismo que le queda

y díganle que en ciertas mañanas llenas de luz

y en medio de tardes de piadosa lujuria y también borracho de vino

en noches de lluvia

siente cierta alegría pueril por su inocencia

y díganle que en esas ocasiones dichosas habla a solas.

Díganle que si alguna vez regresa, volverá con dos cerezas en sus ojos

y una planta de moras sembrada en su estómago y una serpiente

enroscada en su cuello.

Y tampoco esperará nada de nadie y se ganará la vida honradamente,

de adivino, leyendo las cartas y celebrando extrañas ceremonias en las

que no creerá

y díganle que se llevó consigo algunas supersticiones, tres fetiches,

ciertas complicidades mal entendidas

y el recuerdo de dos o tres rostros que siempre vuelven a él en la


y nada.


A note on ‘Reasons for his absence’

I was attracted to this poem by its epistolary style, and by the device of news being relayed about an absent party. The lack of clarity surrounding the reasons for the man’s absence holds particular poignancy in a country such as Colombia, where ‘disappearances’ were – at the time of the poem’s composition, in the late 1970s – already becoming an everyday occurrence. The slightly elevated or ‘baroque’ language and incantatory style creates a strange juxtaposition with the content, which describes a life of sensual dissolution. The curiosity is stirred by the profound sense of loss or lack with which the absentee seems infused, wherever he is. Whether his exile is literal or metaphoric is never made clear.

My principal concern with the translation of this poem concerned the title. The Spanish noun ‘razón’ can mean a range of things, including ‘reason’ or ‘information’, or even ‘explanation’, depending on context. Similarly ‘ausente’ – here a noun, but commonly an adjective – could be translated in a number of ways: ‘the absent one’ sounded too much like translatorese, ‘the missing person’ subject to over-interpretation in the context of recent Latin American history. In the end I chose ‘his absence’, which deviates from the original in a grammatical sense but conveys the meaning of the phrase accurately. A second concern was the repetition in the Spanish of ‘díganle’ (literally: tell him), which, since it refers back to ‘alguien’ (anyone) in line 1, I chose to translate as the generic ‘tell them’.

 I attempted to re-create the long, rolling cadences of the original in my translation, alongside the reiteration of the introductory ‘tell them that . . .’.

I have also tried to reproduce the bereft tone that reflects the absentee’s solitude, and the distance he has chosen to maintain from those he left behind.

 When I read this poem out loud at an event – as I do from time to time – it still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I can’t say that happens with many poems, but with this one it happens every time.

About Darío Jaramillo Agudelo is an internationally acclaimed poet, novelist and essayist. He graduated in law and economics from the Universidad Javeriana of Bogotá, and worked for many years in various roles with state cultural and arts organisations. He has been shortlisted or winner of several awards for his work, including the Colombian National Eduardo Cote Lamus prize for poetry (1978), and the José María de Pereda Prize for the short novel (2010). The most recent edition of his Selected Poems is his personal anthology Basta cerrar los ojos (México DF: Era, 2014).

The Dead

10 May

Mexico Drugs War


The Dead


María Rivera (Mexico)


Here they come

the decapitated,

the amputees,

the torn into pieces,

the women with their coccyx split apart,

those with their heads smashed in,

the little ones crying

inside dark walls

of minerals and sand.

Here they come

those who sleep in buildings

that house secret tombs:

they come with their eyes blindfolded,

their hands tied,

shot between their temples.

Here come those who were lost in Tamaupilas,

in-laws, neighbours,

the woman they gang raped before killing her,

the man who tried to stop it and received a bullet,

the woman they also raped, who escaped and told the story

comes walking down Broadway,

consoled by the wail of the ambulances,

the hospital doors,

light shining on the waters of the Hudson.

Here they come

the dead who set out from Usulután,

from La Paz

from La Unión,

from La Libertad,

from Sonsonate,

from San Salvador,

from San Juan Mixtepec,

from Cuscatlán,

from El Progreso,

from El Guante,


those who were given the goodbye at a karaoke party,

and were found shot in Tecate.

Here comes the one they forced to dig his brother’s grave,

the one they murdered after collecting a four thousand dollar ransom,

those who were kidnapped

with a woman they raped in front of her eight year old son

three times.

Where do they come from,

from what gangrene,

oh lymph,

the bloodthirsty,

the heartless,

the murdering


Here they come,

the dead so alone, so mute, so much ours,

set beneath the enormous sky of Anáhuac,

they walk,

they drag themselves,

with their bowl of horror in their hands,

their terrifying tenderness.

They are called

the dead that they found in a ditch in Taxco,

the dead that they found in remote places of Chihuahua,

the dead that they found strewn across plots of crops,

the dead that they found shot in la Marquesa,

the dead that they found hanging from bridges,

the dead that they found without heads on common land,

the dead that they found at the side of the road,

the dead that they found in abandoned cars,

the dead that they found in San Fernando,

those without number they cut into pieces and have still not been found,

the legs, the arms, the heads, the femurs of the dead

dissolved in drums.

They are called

remains, corpses, the deceased,

they are called

the dead whose mothers do not tire of waiting,

the dead whose children do not tire of waiting,

the dead whose wives do not tire of waiting,

they imagine them in subways, among gringos.

They are called

baby clothes woven in the casket of the soul,

the little tee shirt of a three-month-old

the photo of a toothless smile,

they are called mamita,


they are called

little kicks

in the tummy

and the newborn’s cry,

they are called four children,

Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)

and a widow (a girl) who fell in love at primary school,

they are called wanting to dance at fiestas,

they are called blushing of hot cheeks and sweaty hands,

they are called boys,

they are called wanting

to build a house,

laying bricks,

giving food to my children,

they are called two dollars for cleaning beans,

houses, estates, offices,

they are called

crying of children on earth floors,

the light flying over the birds,

the flight of pigeons in the church,

they are called

kisses at the river’s edge,

they are called

Gelder (17)

Daniel (22)

Filmar (24)

Ismael (15)

Agustín (20)

José (16)

Jacinta (21)

Inés (28)

Francisco (53)


in the scrubland,

hands tied

in the gardens of ranches,


in the gardens of ‘safe’ houses,

in some forgotten wilderness,

disintegrating mutely

and in secret,

they are called

secrets of hitmen,

secrets of slaughter,

secrets of policemen,

they are called sobbing,

they are called mist,

they are called body,

they are called skin,

they are called warmth,

they are called kiss,

they are called hug,

they are called laughter,

they are called people,

they are called pleading,

they were called I,

they were called you,

they were called us,

they are called shame,

they are called sobbing.

Here they go









breasts bitten,

hands tied,

their bodies burned to a crisp,

their bones polished by the sand of the desert.

They are called

the dead women that no one knows no one saw being killed,

they are called

women who go out alone to bars at night,

they are called

working women who leave their homes at dawn,

they are called








chucked away,

they are called meat,

they are called meat.


without flowers,

without tombstones,

without an age,

without a name,

without sobbing,

they sleep in their cemetery:

its name is Temixco,

its name is Santa Ana,

its name is Mazatepec,

its name is Juárez,

its name is Puente de Ixtla,

its name is San Fernando,

its name is Tlaltizapán,

its name is Samalayuca,

its name is el Capulín,

its name is Reynosa,

its name is Nuevo Laredo,

its name is Guadalupe,

its name is Lomas de Poleo,

its name is Mexico.


Translated by Richard Gwyn

This poem, along with 155 others by 97 Latin American poets, selected and translated by Richard Gwyn, will be published in October 2016 in The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, from Seren Books.

A video of the poet reading ‘The Dead’ can be found here:


Los Muertos


Allá vienen

los descabezados,

los mancos,

los descuartizados,

a las que les partieron el coxis,

a los que les aplastaron la cabeza,

los pequeñitos llorando

entre paredes oscuras

de minerales y arena.

Allá vienen

los que duermen en edificios

de tumbas clandestinas:

vienen con los ojos vendados,

atadas las manos,

baleados entre las sienes.

Allí vienen los que se perdieron por Tamaulipas,

cuñados, yernos, vecinos,

la mujer que violaron entre todos antes de matarla,

el hombre que intentó evitarlo y recibió un balazo,

la que también violaron, escapó y lo contó viene

caminando por Broadway,

se consuela con el llanto de las ambulancias,

las puertas de los hospitales,

la luz brillando en el agua del Hudson.

Allá vienen

los muertos que salieron de Usulután,

de La Paz,

de La Unión,

de La Libertad,

de Sonsonate,

de San Salvador,

de San Juan Mixtepec,

de Cuscatlán,

de El Progreso,

de El Guante,


a los que despidieron en una fiesta con karaoke,

y los encontraron baleados en Tecate.

Allí viene al que obligaron a cavar la fosa para su hermano,

al que asesinaron luego de cobrar cuatro mil dólares,

los que estuvieron secuestrados

con una mujer que violaron frente a su hijo de ocho años

tres veces.

¿De dónde vienen,

de qué gangrena,

oh linfa,

los sanguinarios,

los desalmados,

los carniceros


Allá vienen

los muertos tan solitos, tan mudos, tan nuestros,

engarzados bajo el cielo enorme del Anáhuac,


se arrastran,

con su cuenco de horror entre las manos,

su espeluznante ternura.

Se llaman

los muertos que encontraron en una fosa en Taxco,

los muertos que encontraron en parajes alejados de Chihuahua,

los muertos que encontraron esparcidos en parcelas de cultivo,

los muertos que encontraron tirados en la Marquesa,

los muertos que encontraron colgando de los puentes,

los muertos que encontraron sin cabeza en terrenos ejidales,

los muertos que encontraron a la orilla de la carretera,

los muertos que encontraron en coches abandonados,

los muertos que encontraron en San Fernando,

los sin número que destazaron y aún no encuentran,

las piernas, los brazos, las cabezas, los fémures de muertos

disueltos en tambos.

Se llaman

restos, cadáveres, occisos,

se llaman

los muertos a los que madres no se cansan de esperar

los muertos a los que hijos no se cansan de esperar,

los muertos a los que esposas no se cansan de esperar,

imaginan entre subways y gringos.

Se llaman

chambrita tejida en el cajón del alma,

camisetita de tres meses,

la foto de la sonrisa chimuela,

se llaman mamita,


se llaman


en el  vientre

y el primer llanto,

se llaman cuatro hijos,

Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)

y una viuda (muchacha) que se enamoró cuando estudiaba la primaria,

se llaman ganas de bailar en las fiestas,

se llaman rubor de mejillas encendidas y manos sudorosas,

se llaman muchachos,

se llaman ganas

de construir una casa,

echar tabique,

darle de comer a mis hijos,

se llaman dos dólares por limpiar frijoles,

casas, haciendas, oficinas,

se llaman

llantos de niños en pisos de tierra,

la luz volando sobre los pájaros,

el vuelo de las palomas en la iglesia,

se llaman

besos a la orilla del río,

se llaman

Gelder (17)

Daniel (22)

Filmar (24)

Ismael (15)

Agustín (20)

José (16)

Jacinta (21)

Inés (28)

Francisco (53)

entre matorrales,


en jardines de ranchos


en jardines de casas de seguridad


en parajes olvidados,

desintegrándose muda,


se llaman

secretos de sicarios,

secretos de matanzas,

secretos de policías,

se llaman llanto,

se llaman neblina,

se llaman cuerpo,

se llaman piel,

se llaman tibieza,

se llaman beso,

se llaman abrazo,

se llaman risa,

se llaman personas,

se llaman súplicas,

se llamaban yo,

se llamaban tú,

se llamaban nosotros,

se llaman vergüenza,

se llaman llanto.

Allá van









los pechos mordidos,

las manos atadas,

calcinados sus cuerpos,

sus huesos pulidos por la arena del desierto.

Se llaman

las muertas que nadie sabe nadie vio que mataran,

se llaman

las mujeres que salen de noche solas a los bares,

se llaman

mujeres que trabajan salen de sus casas en la madrugada,

se llaman









se llaman carne,

se llaman carne.


sin flores,

sin losas,

sin edad,

sin nombre,

sin llanto,

duermen en su cementerio:

se llama Temixco,

se llama Santa Ana,

se llama Mazatepec,

se llama Juárez,

se llama Puente de Ixtla,

se llama San Fernando,

se llama Tlaltizapán,

se llama Samalayuca,

se llama el Capulín,

se llama Reynosa,

se llama Nuevo Laredo,

se llama Guadalupe,

se llama Lomas de Poleo,

se llama México.


Facing Rabbit Island

6 May




Facing Rabbit Island


That night we came down

from the colony on the hillside.

The afternoon had strewn

about our heads

a debris of hyperbole

and vague menace.

Bewildered before

the declaiming of Hikmet

by an Air Force General,

cast into stupor

by amphitheatre kitsch,

we sought out the solace

of the purple seaboard,

along with something darker.

But our path was convoluted

– the geography, as someone once

remarked, would not stay still –

and the road abandoned us.

A big white dog appeared, on cue,

led us to the village of Gümüslük.

Across a narrow stretch of sea

lay Rabbit Island.

I might have swum the strait,

but feared the straying tentacles

of confused sea creatures.

Everywhere was closed,

and what wasn’t closed

was closing in. Fishing boats

rocked gently in the harbour;

the awnings of the restaurants

pulled down, dark and silent.

No movement in the street

besides those watchful cats.

I looked to our canine guide,

but he had slipped away.

No respite from the labyrinth,

it pursues you

even when you think

you have evaded it,

sucks you in deeper,

lets you wander, trancelike,

from one variety of despair

to another, presents you

with a chthonic version of yourself,

the one that leads you back

at five a.m. to stagnant water,

the merciless mocking of the frogs,

the ironic moon.




Ballad of the House

2 May
Romulo Bustos

Colombian poet Romulo Bustos Aguirre



Last Tuesday saw the launch in Bogotá of Rómulo Bustos Aguirre’s Collected Poems (1988-2013), La pupila incesante. The event was introduced by another fine Colombian poet, Darío Jaramillo Agudelo. Both poets feature in my forthcoming anthology, The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, to be published by Seren in October. Using a language rich in metaphysical allusion and sensual imagery, Rómulo Bustos is a writer of ‘slow’ poetry, inspired by the landscape and themes of his native Caribbean. A professor of literature at the University of Cartagena, he has won the National Poetry Prize from the Instituto Colombiano de Cultura, and the Blas de Otero Prize from the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Here is my translation of a poem of Rómulo’s, which was published in the Irish poetry magazine Cyphers, back in December 2014.


Ballad of the House

You will find a house with a strange name

	that you will attempt in vain to decipher

And walls the colour of good dreams

But you will not see that colour

Nor will you drink the red plum wine

	that expands memories

On the fence

a child with a half-open book

Ask him the way to the big trees

whose fruits are guarded by an animal

that sends passers-by to sleep just by looking at them

And he will answer while conversing

	with a green-winged angel

(as if it were another child playing at being an angel

with wide banana leaves stuck to his back)

barely moving his lips in a gentle spell

“the cockerel’s song isn’t blue but a sleepy pink

like the first light of day”

And you will not understand. And nevertheless

you will find an immense hallway that I crossed

where the portrait of a lord hangs, shimmering

	slightly, his heart in his hand

And at the back, right at the back,

the soul of the house seated in a rocking chair, singing

But you will not heed her

Because in that instant

A distant sound shall crumple the horizon

And the child will have finished the last page


Translation by Richard Gwyn



Balada de la casa


Hallarás una casa con un nombre extraño

que intentarás descifrar en vano

Y muros del color de los buenos sueños

Pero tú no verás ese color

Tampoco beberás el vino rojo de los ciruelos

que ensancha los recuerdos

En la verja

un niño con un libro entreabierto

Pregúntale por el camino de los grandes árboles

cuyos frutos guarda un animal

que adormece a los andantes con sólo mirarlos

Y él contestará mientras conversa

con un ángel de alas verdes

(como si fuera otro niño que juega al ángel

y se hubiera colocado anchas hojas de plátano a la espalda)

moviendo apenas los labios en un leve conjuro

“el canto del gallo no es azul sino de un rosa dormido

como el primer claro del día”

Y tú no entenderás. Y sin embargo

hallarás un zaguán que yo recorrí inmenso

donde cuelga el retrato de un señor que resplandece

levemente, con el corazón en la mano

Y al fondo, muy al fondo

el alma de la casa sentada en una mecedora, cantando

Pero tú no la escucharás


Pues, en ese instante

Un sonido lejano ajará el horizonte

Y el niño habrá pasado la última de las páginas


Rómulo Bustos Aguirre (Colombia)


The War of the Idiots

26 Apr


blown bridge


The War of the Idiots

by Beatriz Vignoli (Argentina)


We dynamited the bridge before ever

crossing it, the lovely bridge

that we built.


The bridge over the river of forgetfulness, it was.


Now we will die forgotten.

Let’s die then, and from this.


Translation by Richard Gwyn.



La Guerra de los tontos


Dinamitamos antes de cruzarlo

el puente, el bello puente

que habíamos construido.


El puente sobre el río del olvido era.


Ahora, moriremos olvidados.

Muramos ya, y de esto.


‘La Guerra de los tontos’ was first published in Beatriz Vignoli’s collection Viernes, Bajolaluna, Buenos Aires, 2001.

This poem, along with 155 others by 97 Latin American poets, will be published in October 2016, in the anthology The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, from Seren Books.








Ten Tequilas

21 Apr

Ten tequilas


Ten Tequilas  

 by Julio Trujillo (México)


I went out into the street in flames

and without myself,

what was left were shreds of gazes:

the world was my eyes

and my eyes


seeking and at the same time

willing to be found,

striding down there below,

gasp and echo,

a flow without direction that wants

to debouch.

What sea awaits the man who brims over?

But the instant doesn’t ask questions,

it advances and remains standing,

straightens up to full height,


its colours

that in this blue night

keep flying.



Diez tequilas


A la calle salí en llamas y sin mí,

lo que restaba eran jirones de miradas:

el mundo era mis ojos

y mis ojos


buscando a la vez

dispuesto a ser hallado,

zancadas allá abajo,

resuello y resonancia,

caudal que va sin rumbo y que desea


¿Qué mar espera al hombre desbordado?,

pero el instante no pregunta,

avanza y se mantiene,

se yergue a toda altura,


sus estandartes

que en esta noche azul

siguen ondeando.


Translation by Richard Gwyn.

This poem, along with 155 others by 97 Latin American poets, will be published in October 2016, in the anthology The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, from Seren Books.



Landscape with Beggars

24 Mar



Landscape with Beggars

Juan Manuel Roca


The good people wonder

Why a tattered rabble of beggars

Block their prospect of the lilies.

If they don’t receive their ration of manna,

It’s due to their savage custom

Of blighting the landscape and the view.

More ancient than their profession

The beggars emerge from ancient catacombs

Or from remote cathedrals that raise their domes

Between hospices and hospitals.

As they go by they wound and poison the landscape

And the people give way at their passing

As if they were parting a sea

Which they stain with taunts and devastation.

A procession of smells and a procession of dogs

Go past with the wretched hordes. Town mayors

Watch them with watery eyes

While spooning out soup as thick as lava.

The priests seek them out like food

From a kingdom in another world

And describe to them the quarries of hell,

Although they seem to have lived there forever.

They are of another race, another country,

The beggars are dark strangers

Who live on the invisible frontiers of language.

Between them and us a coin makes mock,

A dark commerce in scarcity

Beneath the trinket shop of a relative of God.

On festive days they stare at phantom ships:

They extend their bowls and rough beds to no one

And in the atriums they only pile up scraps of miracles.

There is something of the scarecrow about their trade

Something of falconry about the eyes,

In the way they look at the doves’ bread.

A drunk and downcast man told me at the exit to the bar:

They could send them off to war, to serve as barricades.

The beggars don’t know where to go

When we are ordered to confine the wounded shadows.

The tourist guides, so as not to worry travellers,

Inform them that the beggars are extras

For a film being shot on the streets.

Perhaps they have emerged from a bad dream, from a factory,

From a dockside, from a mine, from a squat.

From the bad dream they bring the surly gaze of those who flee,

From the factory they retain the complexion of a prisoner,

From the docks the vice of loading bales of nothing,

From the mine hard and aggressive eyes,

From the squat an echo carried from the land of Nobody.

Ridicule and Mockery, two faithful dogs, are their companions.


This translation by Richard Gwyn first appeared in Cyphers Magazine, Ireland, 2014.

Juan Manuel Roca (b. Medellín, Colombia, 1946) is one of the most widely read and respected figures in contemporary Colombian poetry. A successful journalist and social commentator, he has a long association with the world-famous poetry festival in the city of his birth, set up in defiance of the long years of war and civil strife in his country. He has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Spanish prize, Casa de Ameríca de Poesía Americana 2009, for his collection Biblia de Pobres, from which ‘Paisaje con mendigos’ is taken.



Paisaje con mendigos


Las buenas gentes se preguntan

Por qué los mendigos interponen,

Entre sus ojos y los nardos,

Su amasijo de harapos. Si no reciben

Su cuota de maná es por su feroz costumbre

De llagar el paisaje y la mirada.

Más antiguos que su oficio,

Los mendigos vienen de antiguas catacumbas

O de remotas catedrales que levantan sus cúpulas

Entre hospicios y hospitales.

Al cruzar hieren y enferman el paisaje

Y las gentes se abren a su paso

Como si partieran en dos un mar

Que tiñen de dicterios y quebrantos.

Un séquito de olor y un séquito de perros

Van tras las hordas miserables. Los alcaldes

Los miran con ojos acuosos

Mientras cucharean una sopa densa como lava.

Los sacerdotes los buscan como alimento

De un reino de otro mundo

Y les describen las canteras del infierno,

Aunque parezcan habitarlo desde siempre.

Son de otra raza, de otro país,

Los mendigos son oscuros forasteros

Que viven en las fronteras invisibles del lenguaje.

Entre ellos y nosotros una moneda nos escarnece,

Un oscuro comercio de penurias

Bajo la tienda de abalorios de un pariente de Dios.

Los días festivos escrutan buques fantasmas:

No encuentran a quien extender yacijas o escudillas

Y sólo amontan en los atrios migajas de milagro.

Algo de espantapájaros hay en su oficio,

Algo de cetrería en sus ojos,

En su manera de mirar el pan de las palomas.

Un hombre ebrio y compungido me dijo a la salida del bar:

Podrían mandarlos a la guerra, servir de barricadas.

Los mendigos no saben dónde ir

Cuando ordenan que acuartelemos las sombras malheridas

Los guías de turismo, para no inquietar a los viajeros,

Advierten que son actores de reparto

De una película que ruedan en las calles.

Quizá hayan salido de un mal sueño, de una factoría,

De un muelle, de una mina, de una casa usurpada.

Del mal sueño traen la mirada arisca de quien huye,

De la fábrica conservan un color de presidario,

Del muelle el vicio de cargar fardos de nada,

De la mina unos ojos duros y pugnaces,

De la casa usurpada en eco llegado de tierras de Nadie.

Escarnio y mofa, dos perros fieles, los acompañan.