The scene:
a field
between two mountains
in which you see:
just that
and the sky
a perfect blue
and voluptuous
clouds
well-formed
they make you want to jump
and roll around inside them
but you can’t
because they’re made of smoke
a body passes through them
now they go in clumps
and hide
behind the mountain
where they get dressed up
fluff their feathers
one appears
as the protagonist
lilting
lyrical
full of herself
behind the others
like a group of young dancers
in love with making the rounds
a gathering of clouds
begin to appear
the wind pushes an enormous one
that from the side enters the scene
it’s a love story
lovers approaching each other
ominously
lovingly
they perch themselves
one on top of the next
just like I dreamed
a gathering of clouds approaching each other
at full speed.
Translated from the Spanish by Alexis Almeida
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.