He estado leyendo una antología de poemas de Miguel Hernandez y me gustó mucho, así que intentaré imitar su estilo. Imitation is the best form of flattery, supongo.

En la oscuridad negra, negra,
las gotas de lluvia azotan como lagrimones
sobre tu rostro de marfil
en una noche histérica que no acaba,
que llora desconsolada, sin fin.

Los truenos son rugidos de trompeta,
timbales y platillos sonando con estruendo.
Platos que chocan con la cocina, su suelo.
Su impacto hace vibrar mis ventanas de cristal.

Dónde estás en esta noche negra, negra?
La lluvia me envuelve como celofán.
El agua me ahoga con el afán
de esta noche que se niega a terminar.
Dónde está el sol que cruza la frontera
del alba? Cuándo llegará mi primavera?

Porque aquí envuelto en oscuridad,
abrazado a la llorona lluvia,
uno espera en compañia de la vaga ilusión
de que ya llegará. Algún día, algún día.



Bueno, no está mal. Como llueve, madre mía....

Viento

Corriente de aire de nacimiento reciente,
Viento jóven que juega con mi ser.

¿Dónde estabas tú hace unos momentos?
¿De dónde sales tú, niño viento?

Ahora me sacudes, mis ramas meces,
Ahora empujas y me guías al crecer.

¿Has estado conmigo siempre?
Moldeandome aunque no fuese consciente.

¿O eres solo un fenómeno reciente?
Una cosa joven, dulce, incipiente.

Ignacio

I sometimes wonder why people wear roman torture devices cast in silver around their necks. Why they protect themselves with symbols of water on their foreheads, and why they wait for hours during a smotheringly sunny day in a crowded street for the pleasure of seeing something sacred, a golden virgin that probably appears every year at the same date and time, carried by six or eight people who are also there to believe. I think of this at night lying in bed, and then, when I see unknown things in the dark I draw exes on my face and chest with my fingertips.

Hama

They hid the truth, in 1982.
Nothing on the news, then it was late.


Today history repeats,


Wheelspokes revolve, as the tanks roll in.


Now rumors escape the dishonest regime,
Drawing water from a river, the wheels keep on rolling.

"Hm... yes... a man holds the fate of the world in his two hands, and yet, simply because he is afraid, he just lets things drift- that is a truism... I wonder what men are most afraid of... Any new departure, and especially a new word- that is what they fear most of all... But I am talking too much. That is why I don't act, because I am always talking. Or perhaps I talk so much just because I can't act. I have got into a habit of babbling to myself during this last month, while I have been lying into a corner for days on end, thinking... fantastic nonsense. And why have I come out now? Can I really be capable of that? Am I really serious? No, of course I'm not serious. So I am just amusing myself with fancies, children's games? Yes, perhaps I am only playing a game."

-Fedor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

I turned back

Today I stood,

At the edge of the world.

I've yet to see anyone fall...

But dead winds roar

The ground is slick,

And water wets the floor.

I stared at an ocean's black,

Thicker than I've seen before;

I could have swiftly swum, or sunk.

But my stomach churned, my gut went soft

And my brain began to thump,

My thoughts bled into the water,

But I pumped them back,

And of that, I thought no more.

Today I walked, right to the edge,

And dipped my toes quick in the shore;

I turned back, I turned back.