Poetry 365

I placed my dream in a ship
and the ship on top of the sea;
—and then parted the sea with my hands
to sink my dream in the deep.

My hands still drip with water
from the blue of the waves thus parted
and the color that runs from my fingers
colors the sands, now deserted.

The wind is approaching from afar,
the night in the cold submits;
under the waves lies dying
my dream, in the hold of a ship…

I will weep as much as needed,
so that I might the sea increase
and that my ship might come to the bottom
and that my dream might cease.

And then, all will be perfect:
the beach smooth, the waters ordered,
my eyes, dry as stones
my two hands, shattered.

Read More

Like the one who demands
his horoscope from an astrologer and then
disappointed and depressed by the awful predictions
ambushes him and cuts his throat
(as if he could evade his fate).
Someone will discover
          the corpse and order
that it be cremated.
          Then
the ashes rising on the wind will draw a map
the sky       the stars
          and in the center that man,
roasting over a slow fire
because of the endless rage of a god
still recuperating from a wounded throat.

Vikram Babu asks:
          have you thought it over?


Como aquel que demanda
su horóscopo a un astrólogo y entonces,
decepcionado y triste por su horrible pronóstico
le embosca y le degüella
(como si así pudiese escapar de su sino).
Alguien encontrará
          el cadáver y hará que lo incineren.
          Luego
las cenizas al viento dibujarán un mapa:
el cielo y las estrellas,
          y en el centro aquel hombre
a fuego lento asado
por la infinita cólera de un dinos
aún convaleciente de su garganta herida.

Vikram Babu pregunta:
          ¿lo has meditado bien?