ojoshidropicos
11-19-2015, 02:36 PM
1
I, Olga Orozco, from your heart I say everyone I die.
I have loved solitude, the heroic perduration of every faith,
the leisure when strange animals and fabulous plants grow,
the shade of a great time that flowed between misteries and hallucinations,
and also the small trembling of the candles in the nightfall.
My story is in my hands and in the hands with others engraved them.
Of my stay will last the magics and the rites,
some dates wasted for the blow of a ruthless love,
the distant smoke of a house where we never live
and some dispersed gestures between the gestures of others that didn't know me.
The rest is already accomplished in the oblivion,
yet the misfortune carve in the face of what it seekings itself in me like in a mirror of smiling meadows,
and that you will see strangely foreign:
my own apparition damned to my shape in this world.
She would have liked keep me in the disdain or the proud,
in a final instant fulminant as a lightning,
not in the unsure tumulus when I rise the voice, deep and cried,
between the whirlwind of your heart.
No. This death has no rest, nor greatness,
I can't being seeing it for the first time, for so long time.
But I must keep dying until your death
because I'm your witness facing a law more profound and more obscure that the changeables dreams,
over there, when we wrote the sentence:
"They have already died.
They were chosen themselves for punishment or for pardon, for heaven and for hell.
Now they are a stain, a dampness, in the walls of the first bedchamber."
2
2
Hostages of another world
To Vicent Van Gogh,
Antonin Artaud,
Jacobo Fijman
It was a deal signed with the blood of every nightmare,
a simulation of sleepers that gnaw the danger in a bone of insomnia.
Forbidded to go beyond.
Only the saint has the emblem for the tunnel and the flight.
The others, the chains, the blindfolds, the punishment.
So it was required to obey the guardians from the bottom of the pit.
It was required to accept the fields that lost them sights at the border of the feets.
It was required to palpate with no eyes the walls that separate the guest and the pursuer.
It was the law of the game in the closed hall:
the halfway bets until lost the key
and some gates opening when spin the death's dices.
And they overtake in a jump to the final,
with their high crowns.
They burned the curtains,
they uproot the trees of the forest,
they broke the membrane until they crossed.
It was a sacred spark in hell,
the gust of a sky buried in the sand,
the head of a god that falls jolting like a thunder, like a lightning.
After, it was nothing.
Nothing more that the flames, the dust, the shattering,
identicals for ever, again.
But this same bitted hand for the trap grazed eternity,
that same destroyed pupil for the light was a fragment of sun,
thoses broken syllables were for a instant the word.
They were the hostage of another world, like the Elijah's chariot.
But they were here,
falling,
grabless.
I, Olga Orozco, from your heart I say everyone I die.
I have loved solitude, the heroic perduration of every faith,
the leisure when strange animals and fabulous plants grow,
the shade of a great time that flowed between misteries and hallucinations,
and also the small trembling of the candles in the nightfall.
My story is in my hands and in the hands with others engraved them.
Of my stay will last the magics and the rites,
some dates wasted for the blow of a ruthless love,
the distant smoke of a house where we never live
and some dispersed gestures between the gestures of others that didn't know me.
The rest is already accomplished in the oblivion,
yet the misfortune carve in the face of what it seekings itself in me like in a mirror of smiling meadows,
and that you will see strangely foreign:
my own apparition damned to my shape in this world.
She would have liked keep me in the disdain or the proud,
in a final instant fulminant as a lightning,
not in the unsure tumulus when I rise the voice, deep and cried,
between the whirlwind of your heart.
No. This death has no rest, nor greatness,
I can't being seeing it for the first time, for so long time.
But I must keep dying until your death
because I'm your witness facing a law more profound and more obscure that the changeables dreams,
over there, when we wrote the sentence:
"They have already died.
They were chosen themselves for punishment or for pardon, for heaven and for hell.
Now they are a stain, a dampness, in the walls of the first bedchamber."
2
2
Hostages of another world
To Vicent Van Gogh,
Antonin Artaud,
Jacobo Fijman
It was a deal signed with the blood of every nightmare,
a simulation of sleepers that gnaw the danger in a bone of insomnia.
Forbidded to go beyond.
Only the saint has the emblem for the tunnel and the flight.
The others, the chains, the blindfolds, the punishment.
So it was required to obey the guardians from the bottom of the pit.
It was required to accept the fields that lost them sights at the border of the feets.
It was required to palpate with no eyes the walls that separate the guest and the pursuer.
It was the law of the game in the closed hall:
the halfway bets until lost the key
and some gates opening when spin the death's dices.
And they overtake in a jump to the final,
with their high crowns.
They burned the curtains,
they uproot the trees of the forest,
they broke the membrane until they crossed.
It was a sacred spark in hell,
the gust of a sky buried in the sand,
the head of a god that falls jolting like a thunder, like a lightning.
After, it was nothing.
Nothing more that the flames, the dust, the shattering,
identicals for ever, again.
But this same bitted hand for the trap grazed eternity,
that same destroyed pupil for the light was a fragment of sun,
thoses broken syllables were for a instant the word.
They were the hostage of another world, like the Elijah's chariot.
But they were here,
falling,
grabless.