Translated by Curtis Bauer
Like the pith around a piece of fruit
or the bound parcels of the clouds,
memory breathes like an invisible world.
From the outside it doesn’t exist, or is only silence.
From the inside it is a going forth of bulldozers,
of charged cells, of ant soldiers
shifting in disarray.
A sadness that doesn’t belong to me
when I cross through the park.
Unstuck and autonomous.
When I feel this way I look, as if from above,
at my usual sadness: it walks alone in the house,
uses my towels, rifles through my files
and muddles around in the kitchen
with its customary meekness.
This sadness is high and airy
like whipped up ocean foam,
something like a flag, a trick, a toll to be paid.
My usual sadness clings to my days
like a thin transparent skin of silk.
This sadness runs and flutters and seems to defeat,
whenever I stand still, the rest of my life.
For subtracting while you add.
For filling your table with birds.
For taking you to a place you don’t know how to leave.
For punishing you without speaking.
For telling you: you are alone.
For preferring that you carry the burden
of its centuries-long pain
when you feel new.
For its preposterous magnet.
For the thirst it produces
when it pretends to be water.
For its parallel life.
For speaking to you
when you want to sleep.
For its pride of a misguided beast.
Because it looks at death
out of the corner of its eye
when it sings oh beauty.
For not giving explanations.
For being self-sufficient.
For being insufficient.
For drinking the shadow of tomorrow.
These poems belong to the forthcoming title Behind What Landscape (Vaso Roto Ediciones, 2015)