There used to be rocks
big and wild
along the path
to the mountain
the rocks are so hard
they don’t need skin
although water leaves its mark
a soft skin
and the wind
a kind of chicken skin
in the shade they’re cold
and they’re warm in the sun
there’s one the shape of a shoe
or a dog’s head
and another the shape of a frog
which is one of the most common shapes
among the rocks
a tree grew over a rock
it attached itself to her
and took her exact form
the root couldn’t enter
like it could the earth
a tree that lived off the rain
or the air
or love for its rock.
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.