Pequeño poema infinito

Poem Small infinite poem with audio, translated into English and image created by AI under the influence of the painter Salvador Dalí
Poem Small infinite poem with audio, translated into English and image created by AI under the influence of the painter Salvador Dalí

Equivocar el camino

es llegar a la nieve

y llegar a la nieve

es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino

es llegar a la mujer,

la mujer que no teme la luz,

la mujer que no teme a los gallos

y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón

puede llegar el viento Austro

y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos

tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera

que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes

y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número

porque es una angustia y su sombra,

porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,

porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo

y es las murallas del muerto

y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.

Los muertos odian el número dos,

pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres

y como la mujer teme la luz

la luz tiembla delante de los gallos

y los gallos sólo saben votar sobre la nieve

tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.

Translation to English: Little infinite poem

Wrong path

is reaching the snow

and reach the snow

it is grazing the herbs of the cemeteries for twenty centuries.

Wrong path

is to reach the woman,

the woman who does not fear the light,

the woman who is not afraid of roosters

and the roosters that don’t know how to crow on the snow.

But if the snow is wrong at heart

the Austro wind may arrive

and like the air it ignores the moans

we will have to graze the graveyard grasses again.

I saw two painful spikes of wax

that buried a landscape of volcanoes

and I saw two crazy children pushing and crying into the eyes of a murderer.

But two has never been a number

because it is an anguish and its shadow,

because it is the guitar where love despairs,

because it is the demonstration of another infinity that is not yours

and it is the walls of the dead man

and the punishment of the new resurrection without endings.

The dead hate the number two,

but the number two makes women sleepy

and how a woman fears the light

the light trembles before the roosters

and roosters only know how to vote on snow

We will have to graze the herbs of the cemeteries without rest.


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