All these poems are included in the book XONDO Clásico y su Metálico Desnaturalismo. Translation from Spanish.
SON: -Father, ¿and now?
FATHER: -Now, son, it's the time after man, whole milk and clear water...so far.
SON: -Father, ¿What do you advise me to do when I become an adult?
FATHER: -Learn how to be young again, son, or, otherwise, die.
An oak to a mimosa:
As long as I shelter you, you will not fade.
I will protect you from the outish elements,
and I will make your seed spread all over the
confines of the world.
If whe autumn comes some of my withered
leaves dared to settle on your green cloak, do
not get upset;
a light breeze will make them fall, and
they will kiss your feet.
MYSELF
Life I am and I know nothing of my absence;
I am death, and I long for my own life,
that, before being what I am, I had
in the ignorance of my presence.
I dream of death, witout leaving my existence,
I wake up, and I live my empty life,
as a sad song to my happiness,
delight of my sanity and madness.
I do not fear, then, the my life’s death,
though I live it from an abyss,
for it is nothing but just mere leaving.
Towards a new state of silence,
and with the appearance of being complete,
both this and that are worth the same.
Both life and death get into debt with each other.
FOUR SEASONS
Opening climbing plant buds,
first loves having a flowerbath,
cuckoos in season and first pains;
faded petals, and goodbye to spring.
The garden blooms as it came back,
with new sprouts of green colours,
that offer a new dawn to the cuckoo,
and so the summer flies by.
Fresh flavours on thirsty lips,
crow’s feet that mark their faces,
and three seasons are gone with the wind.
The sun pull the last beams,
leaving shadows of entrancing
enchantments of olf kids.
BOY – MAN
Lucky boy, unlucky boy,
his soul is free, and his hands are tied;
both mother and father hit him,
usely, inadvertently, protected.
¡Let’s fly! –frightened he says to himself-,
but he feels his wings rusty,
and his dreams alienated.
Tasty meat for a state!
As a Romeo he falls in love,
and he reproduces into ten and three,
fattening his present condition.
He is appointed both shepherd and animal at the same time,
and when, at last, his hour comes,
he leaves a hundred and one feet herd.
Man is born with one only right:
that of being man; and he spends his life getting rid of
those ones who want to have more rights.
THE UPSTART.
A bunch of people prowls somewhere,
very close to the dirty class,
and, as it seems, very well paid,
for providing them with a huge service.
A vehement lackey stinks,
that yields the droit de seigneur,
and, in exchange, he uses a sword
to exterminate his own being.
First , he was a soldier with medals;
then he was a poet, and he got a seat,
Culture and Shrapnel Secretary.
And within one year he will be President,
if he fights the last battles well,
with two big-sized candidates.
Gentle breeze, protect yourself from his mesentery!,
for the Earth remains wihout dawn now,
and all the water evaporates.
MY PEN
Direct descendant of a nail,
heroe of a country between rivers;
its tomb violated by pitiless ones,
now it is the residence of a cent.
A slave fitted in it as well,
with little skill in challenges,
and with a desire to move crowds,
he never managed to carry it out.
He had countless descendants,
all flaunting many rights,
defending them tooth and nail.
Knowing that they are made by their masters,
and that if I serve that people,
they will be undone by my pen.
JANUARY
Even if my name does not reveal,
you will know who I am when reading this sonnet.
I come from an obsolete time,
Festive, and I repel heat.
I write days with the letter L,
as my son and my grandson will do,
and whose names I will keep in secret,
until my memory is gone.
Although I only have one son of mine,
shoots that crop out in october,
I fertilize them, and they are not made of maize.
Three magicians pay me well,
and, on the snow, the sun discovers
the solution to this riddle.
CAPTIVE PASSIONS
Sores made by burning eyes,
wrapped with smoke of legends,
that also hide other garments
of loves, absent in life.
I talk abou those fascinated by their
captive and amended minds,
who get involved in hard fights
because of fools who say to them: “Be decent”.
So these captivated ones I talk about
lived, long ago, other passions,
now changed for a beggar love.
Unwary, they repress their hearts
as the one who hungers having wheat,
without knowing the reasons themselves.
AN IMPOSSIBLE LOVE?
Separated by a silent riverbed,
home of clothed water lilies,
it took us hundreds …, a thousand years
to begin our love game.
We are strong and proud oak,
hidden between dense chestnut trees,
and mimosa with strange neighbours,
as a leafy laurel.
With a yearning for brotherly embrace,
we stretch our branches in the hawthorn,
and, pretty alive, we know hell.
Come, Spring, and kill Winter!
for from our leaves copulating on the
eternal ocean will be our destine.
THE MUSE
Hello! You are… -he says , and he enters.
Goodbye! It moves away without going out yet.
My heart increases its heartbeat,
when it smells the inspiration that is coming in.
Years, lustrums… My head puts off-centre.
My body, tired of going and coming
needs its body to keep on
crying for a life that it does not find.
Helpless without the goddess of reason,
I am full of doubt,
and I invoke Athene for hope
and the awakening of silent skills,
for drinking the passion from my muse,
and for crying “I am dying to feel a hundred lives!”
The soul that allows being penetrated by the
penis of beauty is as beautiful as beauty itself.
FORBIDDEN LOVES
My blood boils, my sense burns,
and such a small distance is between us,
that pretty big would be my profit
on incubating the eggs on your nest.
But as long as you, woman, have a man,
I will not take from you any right,
wether you give me it for love or out of sheer spite,
if I do not succumb to you while sleeping.
With a hell igneous sword,
on my entrails desire fights
my ethics of cold winter
a bloody and vile struggle,
that I prefer to die on eternal ice
to living Odissey’s rescue.
MY EYES’ GIRL WEIGHT
They are not thunders, nor lightnings, nor winds,
nor bright red of a stream of lava,
or avalanche that roars, laughs and digs,
nor even fire that burns my home.
They are not missiles that fall into hundreds,
not even girls that I loved
or a dead man that protected mean and bloody
idlers when he was alive.
It is not time for plundering beauty,
nor mean soldier that kills his brother,
not even the anger of the seas.
Oh loyal friend that stretches his hand to me;
it is you, sweet girl of my eyes,
who perturbs my red ocean.
LETTER
Dear friend of mine,
I write to you with a melancholy
dyed crying,
and a fright overwhelms me:
it is about, my friend,
days that are eternal
when you are not with me,
and nights that are winters.
Here it is also Chritsmas,
and with friends and brazier,
I feel my cold loneliness
and that of the whole world.
In the South my eyes sweep
looking for relief of my pain,
and they only get the soaking
of the rain that falls quietly.
Without the sun, the afternoon is cold,
and somebody roasts chestnuts.
It is a sunflower,
and because of few skills.
I do not care for that,
nor about the wind that blows smoke back;
it rather causes me
even more hunger for your mouth.
Dear friend of mine,
for one only minute with you,
I would give you my whole life,
and more, that I had with me.
The soul that lets the sharp fangs of truth penetrate it is as truthful as truth itself.
