Inside myself
those birds I see are shivering
with burning heat
I memorize in writing the oblivion of the birds
I exercise them
as if in flight
a disarranged freedom would find a home
A white book with no apparent name
Everything becomes a slipping between words
Poetry happens outside the speech
We love each other with the language of the bridge and the ocean
as if time
went back to its cavern
We can pass to clarify that there is no oblivion
nor birds
neither language
We are sacral:
air that lacks all truth
We were children of
the red in the sun’s heat
Before the air was
Were the names
seen from above
a compost print
Lumen of fertile soil
Gaped mother
with her puffing breath
There we were
bandits of hell
gaping a way to the myth
that perishes and returns
again and again
because there is nothing to do
against the beginning
The pulp of love
gives tongue
to Time’s discourse
Between the teeth
the royal blue mist mumbles that
today is a beauty
A begging for love
implores death
in this high diaphragm that
breathes in and out
Unsettles
the edge of the rain
which does not enter
It’s all steely
Only an arrow
invites us to cross over
and we follow it
to drip the sacred
of this red purity
Today I want you
to drink my sunshine
like midnight
On the other side of the bridge
a tapestry of suns surrounds the rain
It seems that
we yellow it all
like a hole of a star in a memory
The landscape raises nostalgia
counterbalance of the downward slope
We don’t even notice
always so enraptured
distracted by the dazzle
We enter the stream’s sway with applause
detached from everything
Is there anything more alive than
arriving thus naked at the children’s bottom
and promise what we love forever
with the remains of the sun
under our fingernails?
My walk is hijacked
by the magnificent way
I arrive home
I walk through the house
as if it were a mansion of wings
where I lose my steps
They echo with a ghost heel
in the dome of the wood
There are snakes and jewels
wisps under the bed
The snore of a wild beast is heard
His hot breath puffs
It gives off the smells that trap me
I think of new words
that follow my enduring walk
Which comes first
the circle
or the egg
When I have so much to think about
I am perplexed
watching those whiskers
lick themselves
A roll cushions the dizziness’s shock
around the most ordinary things
I don’t mean to make too much noise
but it is inevitable
that the sleeping beauty
wakes up
and he’s hungry
All the poems were created in Spanish by Teresa Korondi and included in the book Par (Pair) and translated into English in collaboration with Gili Haimovich to be included in the book Traces of a Pair.
