escenas de familia (VI)
el abismo se nos pegaba a la piel
como el polvo de los caminos;
era una forma de decirlo,
no la única ni la verdadera,
la puerta, tan baja, cubierta,
al borde del precipicio,
los ladrillos falsos y manchados,
agujereados por las hormigas,
y del otro lado, un mundo antiguo,
cícadas y helechos, naftalina,
y la tele, ensordecedora;
eran canosas de nacimiento
y tenían una sola oreja
que se pasaban de una a otra;
sigilosamente, entre las piedras,
trepábamos hasta la cima,
nos agarrábamos de los tallos
o de las gigantescas espinas,
y mirábamos hacia abajo,
los autos echando humo,
las vecinas bailando, descalzas,
sobre los últimos adoquines,
como en los tiempos de Pericles,
sucias y bellas, bebiendo de la zanja,
como pájaros o perros, al sol,
y mi hermano, mareado por las alturas,
arrojaba bombas de agua, jugos,
pociones de alcohol y cosméticos;
mamá rondaba, acechaba entre las rocas,
no le importaba si manchábamos
las paredes del edificio,
gritaba furiosa, golpeaba la mesa,
y volaba alrededor, etérea, lábil,
con alas de murciélago, peluda;
las erinias, decía papá,
son la personificación de la venganza,
sus lágrimas de sangre, chicos,
son deliciosas, y se hacía marcas
con una navaja y tinta china,
símbolos de paz y equilibrio,
y pulía las estatuas de bronce,
hasta que podía ver su reflejo,
su propia mirada, su desilusión,
pulía las piedras, las molduras,
o hacía muñecos de jabón
y los escondía entre las rocas
para que pensáramos que allí
habitaba una civilización perdida,
seres de jabón y verdín,
peces con anzuelos clavados,
y arriba, en la cumbre vidriosa,
las viejas fregaban y lustraban,
limpiaban su única oreja
con una serpiente como hisopo,
agua, veneno y detergente,
y la tendían al sol, entre rama y rama,
con bombachas y pantalones,
blusas, enaguas y manteles floreados,
y se sentaban a mirar la tele
en un sillón de hojas y troncos,
y mamá gritaba y arrojaba vasos,
arañaba las cortinas, aleteaba,
corría entre las rocas como un perro salvaje,
orinaba en cada árbol, levantando la pata,
saltaba con sus tacos altos, aullaba,
hasta que llegábamos a la cima
y robábamos la oreja,
antes del atardecer, antes del río,
antes de que mamá llorara sangre,
la oreja peluda y canosa de las viejas,
la oreja sabia que todo lo escucha,
y se la entregábamos a mamá
para que le gritara eternamente
o la besara hasta que la serpiente,
enroscada aún en su interior,
le mordiera de nuevo la lengua
ENG - Translated with Deepl. The translation of poetry is very complex, therefore, in this case, it is not intended to have literary value, but only to serve as an orientation for reading.
family scenes (VI)
the abyss was sticking to our skin
like the dust on the roads;
it was a way of saying it,
not the only one, nor the true one,
the door, so low, covered,
on the edge of the precipice,
the false and stained bricks,
pockmarked by ants,
and on the other side, an ancient world,
cycads and ferns, mothballs,
and the TV, deafening;
they were gray-haired from birth
and they had only one ear
that passed from one to the other;
stealthily, among the stones,
we climbed to the top,
we grabbed the stems
or the gigantic thorns,
and look down,
the cars smoking,
the neighbors dancing, barefoot,
on the last cobblestones,
as in the time of Pericles,
dirty and beautiful, drinking from the ditch,
like birds or dogs, in the sun,
and my brother, dizzy from the heights,
threw bombs of water, juices,
alcohol potions and cosmetics;
mother hovered, lurked among the rocks,
she didn't care if we stained
the walls of the building,
she'd scream angrily, bang on the table,
and flew around, ethereal, labile,
bat-winged, furry;
the erinyes, dad said,
are the personification of vengeance,
her tears of blood, boys,
are delicious, and he would make marks
with a razor and Indian ink,
symbols of peace and balance,
and polished the bronze statues,
until he could see his reflection,
his own gaze, his disillusionment,
he polished the stones, the moldings,
or made soap dolls
and hid them among the rocks
so that we would think
that a lost civilization lived there,
beings of soap and slime,
fish with hooks stuck in them,
and above, on the glassy summit,
the old women scrubbed and polished,
cleaning their only ear
with a snake like hyssop,
water, poison and detergent,
and spread it out in the sun,
between branch and branch,
with panties and pants,
blouses, petticoats and flowered tablecloths,
and they sat down to watch TV
in an armchair of leaves and logs,
and mom would scream and throw glasses,
scratched the curtains, flapped her wings,
she'd run through the rocks like a wild dog,
peed on every tree, lifting her paw,
jumped up on his high heels, howled,
until we got to the top
and stole the ear,
before the sunset, before the river,
before mama cried blood,
the hairy, gray-haired ear of the old women,
the wise ear that listens to everything,
and we would give it to mother
so that she could scream at it forever
or kiss it until the snake,
still coiled inside her,
bit her tongue again
La imagen fue creada con el modelo de inteligencia artificial Stable Diffusion.
The image was created with the Stable Diffusion artificial intelligence model.
