THE GUAMO TREE
Dawn breaks. On the dew-bathed
Guamo tree a blackbird sings.
Taste of time in that voice
And in those feathers that burn
Without ever turning to ash. The world
Wakes up to sadness, to its usual
Tasks, zealously insisting on
Not falling into oblivion.
Poor endeavor. The voracious Mouth
Will leave no bones foul.
And yet no one would deny
The beauty of the day opening in
The mist. Dampness and light
Kiss and part. Children
Wake up to their games. The mooing
Of cows fills stables
With joy. Men and women
Put an end
To their love battles. And the blackbird sings
On the dew-bathed guamo tree.
My heart sees it all from a
Dream. I know I'm neither blackbird
Nor morning that opens, but
Time, which is everything.
It joins us by parting us.
My joy is the joy of surprising a birth,
The florescence of life.
As long as that secret is revealed to us
It does not matter, that certainty of being doomed flesh,
Flesh without enduring time.
Poem of the week © 2005, Alberto Vélez; © Translation: 2011, Laura Chalar