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Éter v.1
No soy de aquí.
De dónde vengo no se pregunta de dónde eres si no de quién. Y si de allí ya no soy, no soy de nadie más
que de muchos
en muchas partes
en muchas partes
I
de la cueva y la montaña,
Mis ligamentos son de la tierra del huerto,
del limo del valle,
y el barro en la rambla. Mi carne es de la arena,
clara en las dunas y oscura en la playa. Yo soy de los que aprendieron a hacer brotar el suelo y no lo poseyeron.
De los que marcharon con magia en sus bolsillos cuando aún no la llamaban ciencia. Mis pisadas llevan grabada la memoria ancestral de los que hicieron de sus sueños y pasos la misma cosa. Los surcos de mis huellas se forjaron en la ceniza de su miedos, a equivocarse, a descubrir, a transmutarse.
Yo
soy camino.
Mi sentido no lo escriben los que dibujan y desdibujan mi contorno en los mapas.
No pertenezco a los que me asfaltan
Ni soy dependiendo de sus señales o vallas.
Vengo de los secuestrados a punta de pasaporte
de los mutilados con visas dentadas.
yo soy de su conocimiento y perseverancia
II
Yo vengo del mar cálido
que viste los brazos en blancas filigranas y engalana las oscuras sienes. Yo soy de su espuma curandera
Y atestiguo la magia de sus salinas, tan rosas como sus flamencos.
Yo emerjo del río que sobrevive oculto en los cañizales,
del aljibe que custodia perla y de la acequia que alimenta los bancales
Yo soy del reflejo de la luna suave
por ella mi sangre canta baja y profunda
y mi leche brota, con el sonido de un remar tranquilo
Destilo el alma del primer deshielo y el de las aguas termale, afloro de las raíces que mi hije muerde en mi pecho y de los injertos de mis padres. Yo emano de la escarcha fina que al alba amenaza
de su hermana boria en sigiloso manto
yo me condenso en la pitera y el horizonte escalo
Yo
vengo del jazmín imparable ofreciendo su oloroso nectar, del fluir de la savia que a oscuras navega,
del pino al olmo, retorciéndose en la vid
descansando en el limonero.
Mi linfa es de la miel de azahar y mi útero oro de olivo y fruto de almendro.
III
Soy de la caricia de la brisa en el esparto,
del aliento incansable que envuelve en arena y polvo
Nazco del silbido que hace danzar las palmeras tintineando sus cuentas de bronce
Del frenesí del Jaloque
y el levante engañoso Soy de las ancianas que reciben la mañana con sus escobas y cubos de agua, no tanto para limpiar como para dar parte de lo que ha sido, lo que es y viene. Soy de lo que callan sus bocas mientras saludan y lo que registran sus ojos tras las persianas.
Del respirar de las sábanas en los tejados y el soplido en las velas de los que encontraron su lugar al perderlo.
Soy del rayo de la tormenta seca,
del correr del calamón y el planeo de águila
del resuello de azafrán,
y los murmullos del tomillo, hierbabuena e hisopo
vengo libre y ligera
De la música ambulante y el polen contra la ventanas,
salgo de los remolinos en las aceras
Danzo en el griterío de la plaza bajo los toldos,
y hablo con el acento de los jilgueros en los patios
y la entonación del ruiseñor en la rama
Yo soy de la madre que canta
Y de la hija que tararea.
IV
Mi corazón es de zumaque y la granada
mi garganta tronco del albaricoque
Mi piel del melocotón maduro y el comino salvaje
mi ojo izquierdo de los huesos del níspero al tocar el suelo.
Mi cuna es inabarcable
comienza en las moreras y en los capullos de seda, continua en las chumberas, bajo las espinas de los higos de pala, reverbera en el clamor de las chicharras a medio día,su eco surca la piel de los melones dorados y se enrosca como zarcillo de sandía, zumba de noche, con sus aspas colgando del techo y lleva la marca del persimmon en su centro.
Crecí del vientre del sol que quema como herida abierta en el cielo
Me enseñó a maldecir,ablandando mi vista como aceite chisporroteante.
Yo soy de la llama enredada en rastrojos y caña, la que asola la sierra y al alfar aliment, la que purifica tras la cosecha salva como almenara, soy del crujido de las brasas bajo la mesa en inviern, del bullir de la plata fundida en abalorios, del maullar de las gatas en el tejado y el dormitar de las salamanquesa.
Yo vengo de la sed de los que amaron,
de los que tienen cimientos errantes en el cielo
y de la luz de las estrellas.
V
Yo sé de dónde vine
aprendo por donde paso
Pero soy del lugar en el que me convierto.
*Match image by suib icon from the Noun Project
︎
In English:
“ETER”
From where I come you are not asked where, but whom; And if I am from there no longer
I
My bones are from the rocks of the cave and the mountain.My ligaments are from the soil of the orchard, from the silt in the valley, and the mud of ravines.
My flesh is from the sand, light on the dunes, darker on the beach.
I come from those who learned to make the ground sprout, and yet, did not possess it. Those who departed with magic in their pockets when it was not called science.
My footsteps are engraved with the ancestral memory of those who made their dreams and steps the same thing. The ridges of my fingerprints were forged from the ash of their fears, to err, to discover, to change.
I
Am
path
My course is not written by those who draw or blur my outline on maps. I do not belong to those who pave me; Nor am I depending on their signs and fences.
I come from those who were gunpointed by passports, those maimed with toothed visas. I arise from their knowledge and perseverance.
II
I come from the warm sea, the one who dresses the arms in white filigree, and adorns the dark temples.
I am from its healer foam, And I witnessed the marvel of its salt flats, as pink as its flamingos.
I emerge from the survivor river hidden in the reeds, from the aljibe* guarding its pearls, and from the acequia** nourishing the bancales***.
I am made of the reflection of the soft moon. For it my blood sings low and deep and my milk springs with the sound of a quiet rowing.
I am distilled from the soul of the first thaw and from the hot springs, I thrive from the roots that my child bites on my chest and my parents' grafts.
I am broadened by the fine frost that threatens at dawn and the stealthy cloak of her sister mist. I can condense myself in the agave to climb the horizon.
I Come from the unstoppable jasmine, offering our fragrant nectar, from the flowing sap sailing in the dark, from the pine to the elm, writhing in the vine, resting by the lemon tree. My lymph is from the orange blossom honey and my womb, the gold of the olives and the fruits of the almond tree.
III
I am of the breeze caressing the esparto, from the relentless breath that wraps in sand and dust.
I am born of the hissing that makes the palm tree dance clicking its bronze beads, of the frenzy of the Sirocco and the deceptive Levant.
I am one of the old women who receive the morning with their brooms and buckets of water, not so much to clean as to report what has been, what is and what comes. I am from what their mouths keep silent while greeting and what their eyes register behind the blinds.
From the sheets inhaling on the rooftops, the blowing in the sails of those who found their place by losing it.
I am from the lightning of the dry storm, of the running of the swamphen and the eagle glide. From the saffron wheeze and the murmurs of thyme, spearmint and hyssop.
I come free and lightweight from the roaming music like the pollen against the windows, I come of the whirlwind on the sidewalks, dancing in the bustle of the square under the canopies, and speak with the accent of the goldfinches in the court and the intonation of the nightingale on the branch.
I am from the mother who sings and the daughter that hums.
IV
My heart is of sumac and pomegranate, my throat is made of the apricot trunk, my skin comes from the ripe peach and the wild cumin, my left eye is the locust seed touching the ground.
Mi crib is immeasurable.
It begins in the mulberry trees and silk cocoons, continues at the chumberas* under the spines of the prickly pears. It reverberates in the racket of the cicadas at noon, and Its echo ruts the skin of the golden melon and curls in the tendrils of the watermelons. It whirrs at night with its blades hanging from the ceiling and bears the mark of the persimmon in its center.
I grew from the belly of the sun that burns like an open wound in the sky. It taught me to curse by softening my sight like sizzling oil.
I am from the flame entangled in stubbles and shrubs, the one that ravages the mountains and feeds the pottery kiln, the one that purifies after the harvest and saves lighting the beacon.
I am from the sizzle of the embers under the winter table, from the bustle of silver melted into rings. From the meowing of the cats on the roof and the slumber of the salamanquesa**.
I come from the thirst of those who loved,
from those with wandering foundations in the sky
and the light of their stars.
V
I know from where I came
I learn where I am / where I go
But I am of the place that I become
“ETER”
I am not from here.
From where I come you are not asked where, but whom; And if I am from there no longer
I am not from other than many
in many places.
in many places.
I
My bones are from the rocks of the cave and the mountain.My ligaments are from the soil of the orchard, from the silt in the valley, and the mud of ravines.
My flesh is from the sand, light on the dunes, darker on the beach.
I come from those who learned to make the ground sprout, and yet, did not possess it. Those who departed with magic in their pockets when it was not called science.
My footsteps are engraved with the ancestral memory of those who made their dreams and steps the same thing. The ridges of my fingerprints were forged from the ash of their fears, to err, to discover, to change.
Am
path
My course is not written by those who draw or blur my outline on maps. I do not belong to those who pave me; Nor am I depending on their signs and fences.
I come from those who were gunpointed by passports, those maimed with toothed visas. I arise from their knowledge and perseverance.
II
I come from the warm sea, the one who dresses the arms in white filigree, and adorns the dark temples.
I am from its healer foam, And I witnessed the marvel of its salt flats, as pink as its flamingos.
I emerge from the survivor river hidden in the reeds, from the aljibe* guarding its pearls, and from the acequia** nourishing the bancales***.
I am made of the reflection of the soft moon. For it my blood sings low and deep and my milk springs with the sound of a quiet rowing.
I am distilled from the soul of the first thaw and from the hot springs, I thrive from the roots that my child bites on my chest and my parents' grafts.
I am broadened by the fine frost that threatens at dawn and the stealthy cloak of her sister mist. I can condense myself in the agave to climb the horizon.
I Come from the unstoppable jasmine, offering our fragrant nectar, from the flowing sap sailing in the dark, from the pine to the elm, writhing in the vine, resting by the lemon tree. My lymph is from the orange blossom honey and my womb, the gold of the olives and the fruits of the almond tree.
*Vaulted reservoir
**Open-air irrigation canal
*** Terraces and paddy fields
**Open-air irrigation canal
*** Terraces and paddy fields
III
I am of the breeze caressing the esparto, from the relentless breath that wraps in sand and dust.
I am born of the hissing that makes the palm tree dance clicking its bronze beads, of the frenzy of the Sirocco and the deceptive Levant.
I am one of the old women who receive the morning with their brooms and buckets of water, not so much to clean as to report what has been, what is and what comes. I am from what their mouths keep silent while greeting and what their eyes register behind the blinds.
From the sheets inhaling on the rooftops, the blowing in the sails of those who found their place by losing it.
I am from the lightning of the dry storm, of the running of the swamphen and the eagle glide. From the saffron wheeze and the murmurs of thyme, spearmint and hyssop.
I come free and lightweight from the roaming music like the pollen against the windows, I come of the whirlwind on the sidewalks, dancing in the bustle of the square under the canopies, and speak with the accent of the goldfinches in the court and the intonation of the nightingale on the branch.
I am from the mother who sings and the daughter that hums.
IV
My heart is of sumac and pomegranate, my throat is made of the apricot trunk, my skin comes from the ripe peach and the wild cumin, my left eye is the locust seed touching the ground.
Mi crib is immeasurable.
It begins in the mulberry trees and silk cocoons, continues at the chumberas* under the spines of the prickly pears. It reverberates in the racket of the cicadas at noon, and Its echo ruts the skin of the golden melon and curls in the tendrils of the watermelons. It whirrs at night with its blades hanging from the ceiling and bears the mark of the persimmon in its center.
I grew from the belly of the sun that burns like an open wound in the sky. It taught me to curse by softening my sight like sizzling oil.
I am from the flame entangled in stubbles and shrubs, the one that ravages the mountains and feeds the pottery kiln, the one that purifies after the harvest and saves lighting the beacon.
I am from the sizzle of the embers under the winter table, from the bustle of silver melted into rings. From the meowing of the cats on the roof and the slumber of the salamanquesa**.
I come from the thirst of those who loved,
from those with wandering foundations in the sky
and the light of their stars.
* Opuntia cactus, nopal
** Tarentola mauritanica Gecko
** Tarentola mauritanica Gecko
V
I know from where I came
I learn where I am / where I go
But I am of the place that I become
(Translation by the author)
