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 Article publié le 27 mars 2004.

oOo

Thirst Throat Sand

Thirst Throat Sand
Thirst of orphans howling
Thirst of rain in the horizon
Thirst exile of infinite
Shriek in the desert thirst
Thirst exile of dew
Asthma of crystals
Thirst.
Thirst Throat Sand
I die dehydrated
I bleed with thirst
I drown with thirst
I vibrate with thirst
I born thirst
Poetry
Thirst

Translation : Mara Dolores Frías


Seeds

Those hunters. They will capture us. You and me.
Them. Thousands of slender souls who are smugglers together with me.
Of values. Of possible utopies. Of Art.
Art. Denial of the human limitation in time and space.
To live without masks, that’s a desire of beauty.

"My" dream is of permanent vigil of "the" dreams.
It’s thirst for open hands.
It’s such a thirst that it drowns me.
I want every window to lighten a violin, a piano, a harp.
I want Giacometti’s Sculptures to stare with delight at La Pietá in all the avenues of the world.
I want a Christ of the Velázquez to abort the horror
 in every Government.

 This thirst. Blessed thirst that consumes and renews the soul.
Prodigious life that enlarges the desire of holding it.
And the truce coming with delayed steps.
I want Fra Angélico to escape from the Prado
 so that his Annunciation lightens the world.
I want Redon and Mantegna, Ucello, Morandi, Leonardo and Monet
to be footprints. Lighthouses. And to abolish tyrants and come to an end.

I want us to learn -at once my God ! It’s high time !- that absolute commitment, with love, is certainty of freedom.
I want mornings without news from souls that lack of angels.
Instead, I want Bach, Poulenc, Mahler, Di Lasso, Debussy, Schubert and Chopin
to explode over the River Plate transforming it into a sea.
Blue sea of love that lulls pillows to sleep together with adage madrigals and the moonlight.

I wish. I wish and I sow. I wish.
I want us to teach goodness with goodness.
A sky freckled of stars.
I want adults with a virgin laugh and angels in the children’s portrays.
Merciless people breathing Blake
Rilke exorcising the obviousness
Old people living honourably
I want an equal country, continent, world, universe.
 Without discrimination.

I want Eluard, Prevert, Desnos, Quasimodo, Yeats, Salinas, Kavafis and Celan to dance poetry over the souls.
So that Schiller’s Happiness Song,
Freedom’s ode and Beethoven’s ninth
become the Hymn of the Fairy’s land.
To live with thirst, holy thirst.
To have dawns eve.
To sow art and love.
So as not to see anymore.
Masks.

Just light. Just truth.

The obligation of Beauty

We weren’t born for the clamor of missiles.
Nor for the noises of unbrotherly voices.
We weren’t born for devastated dreams
Nor for the crying of children and elders.
Nor to drown in tears the soul, crying on the inside
We weren’t born to suffocate the hopelessness in our throat.
We were born for our Lives to be splendor and not emptiness.
For thirst and for water.

I think that the sounds of the countryside
allowed Mahler to explain the polyphony.
It rains in Buenos Aires.
I listen to some piano solos by Debussy.
Hands that transmute in music
or butterflies dancing on the keyboard ?
Crystalline water music in the silence.
Although the gray and although the drizzle.
And Girondo happens to me.
Returning from the abyss
Where the experience turned him into oblivion.
Provisory.
And tells me that
"Nobody ever listened with greater benefit than Debussy
the arpeggios that the rain’s translucent hands
Improvise on the keyboard of the blinds"
Beauty is on its feet.
It rains and Debussy.
And in the eves of this gray night
Gabriel Faure and Saint Colombe.
And before and after
Di Lasso and Bach and Chopin.
And.
With the delicateness of a humming bird
That dances above the lavenders
Music moves our being
Like beats of nature
And love.

The Power denies the Music.
And there is Music.
Because of Art.
Because they’ll never be able to.
Because no one will ever kill the music.
Neither the poetry.
Nor the painting.
The artists in this... country ?
are unsheltered.
We are unsheltered.
 Without art there is no joy.
Without art there is no light.
Without art there is no dignity.
Without art there is no life.
And the Power makes a toast with Orpheus’ tears
But nothing they’ll obtain against the ungraspable.
Art.
"...My love and my heart were great birds
that flew among a multitude of stars"
Wrote Robert Desnos.
And if we fly this way
Together
God
Together
Everyone in the World in the Universe.
Nobody will kill the music.
Nobody will kill life.
I feel shame and disgust.
For the inhuman.
But its greater the strength inside
I feel my Thirst.
Blessed thirst.
That anticipates water.
Water. Music. Art. Life. Equality. Justice. Freedom. Republic.
Transparency.
Thirst.
Thirst like a bird flying.
Among a multitude of stars
For the obligation of Beauty

Translation : Gabriel Bernstein


Horror theater 
 

A theater play of horror
Is seen every day
At the capital city of ostentatious towers
And very wealthy rich people living behind their walls
Macabre scenery of
Children and old people dressed in rags hunger and thirst.
There is no music.
There is a tumult of deserter steps
That hasten their march pace through the streets of the country
Estranged.
At the Theater Play of the Horror Theatre
There are no actors.
There are protagonists
They’re human waste
In humiliation and hoarfrost tears
Enough.
The World Vertical now
Towards a Humanity
In forever insomnia
In forever prayer
For
L
I
F
E

Translation : Gabriel Bernstein



3 poems of "Sed / Soif" © Cristina Castello 2004

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