V i c t o r A l e g r í a S. —

translated by J e s s i c a S e q u e i r a

Breakwater

It was noon.

The light trickled

through the pines.

Blue shadow

fell on the road.

Groups of people

climbed up and down

from the breakwaters.

In the houses, every inch

of walls and gardens

are covered in

little flecks of light.

As we walked

a burnished steel horizon

with white and small sails

revealed itself.

We came down the hill

all the time in the world

ahead of us.

Summer’s Birth

Another year reaches its end.

I position my easel

on the rugged hillock

and try to paint the valley

at summer’s birth

A certain joy

infects my mood

thinking of night

the first and last

party of the year.

While coming down a path

the canvas tangles with

an herb

that will remain

on the oily

surface of time.

Grim Ruins

The poem as result of the present

contains the past

until the time it emerges

despite ourselves

in flickering hours

as on a day of storm

when thunder follows

lightning on the roofs.

The poem is not evanescent.

It remains

within grim ruins of the flesh.

Hidden Water

Everyone departs.

It is time.

Not only the clock gives orders

so does shadow.

The rooster crows

and we know

the hour of the death

in the fields.

To live is serious

thus tormented

we conceal ourselves.

But in the crevices

water hides.