Wednesday, 7 April 2010


(Trans. Gaston Bouchard)

I want to believe that men
don’t die far from their motherland.
That the childhood skies,
those eyes, the afternoons
that you and I breathed,
the railings around the lit up
courtyards where I would kiss you
still live in the memory
of the air.

I want to believe that they are waiting
for the cool shade of a
summer before they return
or perhaps, tired
of waiting for the miracle
of blood,
they keep dreaming
the dream of madmen
as stubborn
as the dead
who, tied to life,
to become a legend
with their bones.

Jorge Palma is a Uruguayan poet. He writes in Spanish. His poems have a resounding depth, which translation does not take away.

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