Translation by Yasmín Rojas Pérez
In dreams I see the horses graze.
They walk around the hill from one side to another,
by these green lands that the night illuminates in my memory;
they walk amongst the buds, between oats’ outbursts,
they fan their body with their tail
to avoid the horseflies’ small spear.
They are the same horses I met one evening in the field,
the same ones that arrived near the edge of the river
looking for a taste of tender grass.
Their bodies, like back then, are warm and sturdy
but they have slowed down,
they have been burdened by the rains,
they have been worn by the stress of pulling.
Their eyes are serious, the figure exhausted,
the fur ruined from the blows, the wind and the heat.
They are shady traces from another world,
a world I have forgotten
and now comes back to me from afar
filled with memories, with images
and names that return in pieces.
I see the horses graze. In their exhausted flanks
there are traces of pains and past tortures
memories of one rainy evening
that in dreams smell of sacred candle and wet horse,
and in their waters drag my grandmother’s face
her features erased from the impact
of an insulin shot,
her will broken when she could no longer go on
and she laid down to die
like the old horse that comes to rest under a mesquite tree.
And I did not cry, I could not cry for her,
I did not close her eyes, nor did I hold her hands
because that evening I was in the field
clinging on to the sides of my mount,
today I find her again,
serene in the space without time among the dreams,
I watch her return in between horses, I kiss her in this peace
and although everything has changed,
I contemplate her walking away with them by the river,
a river of heavy, familiar waters.