I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.
by Gonzalo Márquez Cristo
Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And even though I ignore that around me abysses are born, I was originally blemished by happiness, by its inclement summit.
The invading substractions of memory. The struggle of the root. The antiquity of silence . . .
I don't put flowers in the cemetery of dreams, but I go on in spite of all the quicksands of the spirit.
The guilt that does not allow you to leave is love.
And now fog, rain, absence . . .
The unbalance called beauty, the terrible abandonment of the sacred, the igneous rose guiding me in desperation . . .
I know the path will end up finding me.
As all that becomes visible to die.
Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún