A keresés eredménye

Time passes? It doesn't pass

Time passes? It doesn't pass
in the abyss of the heart
There within, prevails the grace
of love, flourishing in song.
 
Time nears us
each time a little bit more, it reduces us
to one sole verse and one rhyme
of hands and eyes, in the light.
 
There isn't consumed time
nor is there time to economize.
Time is all dressed up
in love and the time of love.
 
My time is yours, beloved,
they transcend any measure.
Beyond love, there is nothing,
to love is the juice of life.
 
The yesterday as much as the now
Are both calendar myths,
and your anniversary
is a birth at all hours.
 
And our love, which blossomed
from time, has no age,
so that only who has loved has heard
the appeal of eternity.
 

Passage of the Year

The last day of the year
isn't the last day of time.
Others day shall come
and new thighs and bellies shall communicate to you the heat of life.
You shall kiss mouths, you shall rip up papers,
you shall make voyages and so many celebrations
of birthday, graduation, promotion, glory, sweet death with symphony
and choir,
that the time shall remain replete and you shall not hear the clamor,
the irreparable howls
of the wolf, in solitude.
 
The last day of time
isn't the last day of everything.
There always remains some fringe of life
where two men sit.
A man and his opposite,
a woman and her foot,
a body and its memory,
an eye and its glimmer,
a voice and its echo,
and who knows if even God . . .
 
Receive with simplicity this present of chance.
You deserved to live one more year.
You hoped to live forever and to deplete the dreg of the centuries.
Your father died, your grandfather too.
In you yourself many things have already expired, others peek out at death,
but you are alive. Still one more time you are alive,
and with a cup in hand
you await the dawn.
 
The appeal of inebriating oneself.
The appeal of the dance and of the shout,
the appeal of the colorful ball,
the appeal of kant and of poetry,
all of them . . . and none of them resolves things.
 
The morning of a new year surges up.
The things are clean, orderly.
The body of gestures replenishes itself in foam.
All the senses function in alertness.
The mouth is eating up life.
The mouth is stuffed with life.
The life spills from the mouth,
besmirches the hands, the pavement.
Life is fat, smelly, mortal, sub-reptilian.
 

Feeling of the world

I have merely two hands
and the feeling of the world,
but I am full of slaves,
my memories run
and my body compromises
in the confluence of love.
 
When I'll get up, the sky
will be dead and looted,
I myself will be dead,
dead my desire, dead
the swamp without harmonies.
 
The comrades didn't say
that there was a war
and that it was necessary
to bring fire and nourishment.
I feel scattered, behind the borders,
humbly I beg ye
to forgive me.
 
When the bodies will pass,
I will remain alone
defying the recollection
of the bellman, of the widow and of the microscopist
who inhabited the tent
and who weren't discovered
at dawn
that dawn
greater than night.
 

In the Middle of the Road

In the
middle of the road there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
there was a stone
in the middle of the road there was a stone.
Never shall I forget of this happening
in the life of my retinas so exhausted.
Never shall I forget that in the middle of the road
there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road there was a stone.
 

Sonnet of Lost Hope

I lost the tram and hope.
I return pale to my house.
The road is useless and no car
passes over my body.
 
I will rise the slow slope
in which the roads base themselves.
All of them lead to the
beginning of the drama and of the flora.
 
I don't know if I am suffering
or if it is someone who entertains themself1
why not? in the sparse night
 
with an insoluble piccolo.
However it makes a lot of time
that we last screamed: yes! to the eternity.
 

• 1. I understand that this is incorrect grammatically and it kind of hurts me to see this . . . especially in a poem but I see no other viable option to preserve the original meaning. The good news is that this is how humans will speak English officially in the future so I'm a bit ahead of schedule . . .

Poem of Seven Faces

When I was born, a twisted angel
one of those that lives in the shadows
said: Go, Carlos! be a misfit in life.
 
The houses watch the men
that run behind the women
The evening maybe was blue,
there weren't so many desires.
 
The tram passes full of legs:
white black yellow legs.
Why so many legs, my God, asks my heart.
Yet my eyes
ask nothing.
 
The man behind the mustache
is serious, simple and strong.
He barely speaks.
There are few, rare friends
the man behind the spectacles and the mustache.
 
My God, why have You abandoned me?
if You knew that I was not God,
if You knew that I was weak.
 
World world vast world
if my name was Harold
it would be a rhyme, it wouldn't be a solution.
World world vast world,
more vast is my heart.
 
I shouldn't have told you
but this Moon
but this cognac
put people crazy like the Devil.
 

What can a creation do but

What can a creation do but
among other creations, love?
to love and to forget,
to love and to love badly,
to love, to fall out of love, to love?
always, and even with glazed eyes, love?
 

The different road

On my road they are cutting down trees
setting down rails
building houses.
 
My road awoke changed.
The neighbors don't accustom to it.
They don't know that life
has those brutal demands.
 
Only my daughter enjoys the spectacle
and amuses herself with the scaffolding,
the light of the autogenous welding
and the cement running over the shapes.
 

Death of the Milkman

There is little milk in the country,
it is necessary to deliver it early.
There is a lot of thirst in the country,
it is necessary to deliver it early.
There is in the country a saying,
that a robber should be killed with a gunshot.
Therefore the young man who is the morning
milkman with his pail
goes out running and distributing
good milk to bad people.
His pail, his bottles
and his rubber shoes
go on saying to the men in sleep
that someone woke up extra early
and came from the farthest suburb
to bring the coldest
and whitest milk from the best cow
so that all would prevail
in the tough struggle of the city.
 
In his hand the white bottle
doesn't have time to say
the things that I attribute it
and the young naïf milkman,
living in the Rua Namur,
employed in the warehouse,
with 21 years of age,
who knows there what might be impulse
of human comprehension.
And now that he has haste, the body
goes leaving the edge of the houses
merely one merchandise.
 
And like how the door of depths
I also hid people
that aspire for a little bit of milk
available in our time,
let us advance through that alleyway,
let us speed through the corridor,
let us deposit the liter . . .
Without making a rustle, it is clear,
that the rustle doesn't resolve anything.
 
My milkman so subtle
and light of gait,
glides before he marches.
It is true that some sound
is always made: mistaken step,
flower vase in the road,
dog barking by principle,
or a quizzical cat.
And there is always someone who wakes up,
grumbles and returns to sleep.
 
But this man woke up in panic
(robbers infest the neighborhood),
He didn't want to know of anything else.
The revolver from the drawer leapt into his hand.
Robber? shoot him.
The morning shots
annihilate my milkman.
Whether he was fiancé, whether he was virgin,
whether he was joyful, whether he was good,
I don't know,
it's too late to know.
 
But the man lost the sleep
of everything, and flees to the road.
My God, I've killed an innocent man.
Bullet that kills thief
also serves to steal
the life of our brother.
Whosoever wishes may call the doctor,
the police doesn't put a hand
on this son of my father.
The property is saved.
The general night proceeds,
the morning costs to arrive,
but the staked
milkman, in the open,
lost the haste he had.
 
From the shattered bottle,
on the already serene brick
spills something thick
that is milk, blood . . . I don't know.
From between confused objects,
badly redeemed by the night,
two colors seek out one another,
softly they touch each other,
lovingly they enlace each other,
forming a third tone
which we call dawn.