Nuevos poemas octubre 2022
Déjame entrar,
Deslizarme serpenteante, siniestra.
Déjame ser, existir como soy en mi piel.
Déjame verte sin la luz que pones frente a ti para deslumbrar a quiénes te miren.
Solo déjame estar ahí, cercana, silenciosa.
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-Poeta y Escritora-
Eliana Maldonado Cano
PhD en Literatura
Todo está planeado.
Me levantaré cuando la Hidra esté en el cénit.
Caminaré en dirección de la Cruz del Sur.
Los pájaros estarán en sus nidos y el búho,
que a esa hora gira la cabeza a la izquierda,
no me verá pasar.
Solo tengo miedo del rumor en el pecho,
será incontenible y aquí,
en este valle, resuenan con fuerza los ecos.
No llevo más equipaje que la piel
y un juego de párpados.
Emergeré en la segunda ola
que rompa en la mañana.
Tomado de Hacía el Pacífico
Todo está planeado.
Me levantaré cuando la Hidra esté en el cénit.
Caminaré en dirección de la Cruz del Sur.
Los pájaros estarán en sus nidos y el búho,
que a esa hora gira la cabeza a la izquierda,
no me verá pasar.
Solo tengo miedo del rumor en el pecho,
será incontenible y aquí,
en este valle, resuenan con fuerza los ecos.
No llevo más equipaje que la piel
y un juego de párpados.
Emergeré en la segunda ola
que rompa en la mañana.
Tomado de Hacía el Pacífico
III
That’s how the condor's eyes told me No.
They flew over the Andes after hearing my pleagary,
they looked at him from afar and understood that his love
was in another river,
with other fish that swam
slowly and spoke in other tongues.
The solar bird approached himself and rested on my arm,
I trembled, I was afraid that it would fall,
he sweetly laid his head on my neck
and cried like the little misk'i mayu[1]
that sang the night I let him love me at his will.
His fingernails clung to my skin, and I bled,
not like in a carnival,
and what was left of my body, got broken into pieces.
Yawar mayu[2] I heard in the distance.
He took flight.
"Forget it," he said.
The sun rays stopped shining in his wild eyes,
then he left me in the middle of the Andean abyss at the mercy of the wind.
[1] Misk'i mayu: Mayu is river
[2] Bood river
Illustrations by Josy Mar Arteaga
V
The ghost bird sings as he does every night from his branch.
I know that he knows I hear him,
that it is to me he sings in that tone of lament and sadness.
In this house no one else hears him,
just my ears that are keen to the lament of those who lie in the world below.
Croaking frogs try to make me oblivious,
they sing joyful songs amid the funeral tune.
The water runs down the slope effortlessly
like someone reluctant to know.
Sing, sing urutaú[1].
I understand who you're talking about and what you say.
Sing, sing urutaú.
I’ll keep on hearing your lament through the night
which is the voice of the one who is no longer with me.
Sing, sing urutaú,
sing to me.
[1] Urutaú: (Nyctibius griseus), ghost bird.
Illustrations by Josy Mar Arteaga
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