UN CEPILLO DE DIENTES ... A TOOTHBRUSH ...
Pedro Serrano trans. Anabel Torres
Un cepillo de dientes, una pluma,
el lado incauto de mi pie,
torcido en una hamaca de dolor,
la pena ciega, fantasmal, certera.
En la mesa en que escribo, a torpes sorbos,
sin redondel, sin visa, sin permiso,
hurgo entre la costumbre de los ritmos
las mismas fresas, la saliva,
busco en el quiebre el hueco,
unas palabras frescas como llanto,
que me dejen estar, que me acompañen,
y vayan otra vez al mundo, lo hagan,
le hagan decir sonrisa y aquí vivo,
no que se atoren y atormenten mudas.
A toothbrush, a feather,
The unwary side of my foot,
Twisted inside a hammock made of pain,
Blind sorrow, phantom like, meticulous.
On the table I write on, gulping, clumsy,
No border, residence card or permit to my name
I dig out from the same routine of rhythms
The same old drills, saliva,
I dig to unearth from a hole in the crack
Some words as fresh as recent crying
That let me be, that keep me company,
Words that go out into the world anew, which prod the world,
Make it say ‘smile’ and ‘I live here’,
Words that don’t choke back and just suffer in silence.

Copyright © Pedro Serrano 2005; trans. copyright © Anabel Torres 2005 - to be published in a collection with the title "Turba" ("Peat)


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