La Poesía

Could I fill the swollen suit of a man so large:

Quien vivió en las torres de la mente de su pueblo,

Escondido en las raíces debajo de la tierra Española?[1]

Where his people danced in the streets, bare-footed,

Beams of luces[2] arrowed through the beads of their sweat

 

¡Canciones de montañas indígenas[3]:

Old songs sprouted in the holes of every volcano!

 

Viejos[4]: drunk and gray-hair, pasted with sweat,

Dance and make sharp turns to the guitarra[5],

Like the galloping horses, they rode when they were young vaqueros.

Gritando[6]:

 

¡Canciones de montañas indígenas[7]:

Old songs sprouted in the holes of every volcano!

 

 

 

Las mujeres y las niñas[8]

Tortilla flour on their hands and Nicaraguan clay on their feet—

Sway their rags in the winds,

Their braids capture the music of every

Hispanic Cinderella,

 Living to the music of La Poesía[9].

 

El Poeta canta a ellos[10]:

¡Canciones de montañas indígenas[11]:

Old songs sprouted in the holes of every volcano!

 

Díos[12], con sus labios[13] dusted with the dirt of cocoa beans,

Licks his fingers and goes off to bed

Tucked in the rays of his Holy mother

Bajo de los planetas y la espuma de las estrellas[14].

 

El Poeta canta a ellos[15]:

¡Canciones de montañas indígenas[16]:

Old songs sprouted in the holes of every volcano!




[1] Whom lived in the towers of his people's mind, / Tucked in the roots underneath Spanish dirt

[2] Lights

[3] Songs of indigenous mountains

[4] Old men

[5] Guitar

[6] Yelling

[7] Songs of indigenous mountains

[8] Women and little girls

[9] Poetry

[10] The poet sings to them

[11] Songs of indigenous mountains

[12] God

[13] With his lips

[14] Under the planets and the foam of the stars

[15] The poet sings to them

[16] Songs of indigenous mountains

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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