Rain drop rolling - Gota de lluvia rodando - Bilingûal Poetry

in #poetry6 years ago

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"Sir, sadnesses were not made for beasts, but for men; but if men feel them too much, they become beasts."

Miguel de Cervantes

Rain drop rolling


In vain me tear
yelling at the wind to read me.
I write on the stones a dark sob,
echoes drowned between four walls.

Something move,
a kind of mutant sigh
try to crawl me.

I probe the earth by touch,
seas, landscapes, colors.
I play with my eyes,
but I'm always wrong.

I need to write by sticking to a line
over the horizon.
Draw the miracle of those days
that float wrapped in a bubble of light,
full of greens with blues,
but it broke with the screams of the night.

I see the streets full of men
walking between his rancor and his fatigue,
pondering, they reveal themselves to me
more than ever, innocents.

I see how the corrupt, the rogue,
the martyrs of poverty or love
They are just signs that I have not read well.

I want this flow of thoughts
record transparent each letter,
with the same writing of the sea in the sands
and the same cosmic piety that life
unfold before my eyes.

In moments like this, I roll like a raindrop
on a glass, looking for a god that will hold me back.



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"Señor, las tristezas no se hicieron para las bestias, sino para los hombres; pero si los hombres las sienten demasiado, se vuelven bestias."

Miguel de Cervantes

Gota de lluvia rodando


En vano me desgarro
gritándole al viento que me lea.
Escribo en las piedras un sollozo oscuro,
ecos ahogados entre cuatro paredes.

Algo se mueve,
una especie de suspiro mutante
trata de avanzar a gatas.

Sondeo la tierra por el tacto,
mares, paisajes, colores.
Los recreo con mis ojos,
pero siempre me equivoco.

Necesito escribir ciñéndome a una raya
sobre el horizonte.
Dibujar el milagro de esos días
que flotan envueltos en una burbuja de luz,
llenos de verdes con azules,
pero se rompió con los gritos de la noche.

Veo las calles repletas de hombres
caminando entre su rencor y su fatiga,
cavilando, se me revelan
más que nunca, inocentes.

Veo cómo el corrupto, el pícaro,
los mártires de la pobreza o del amor
son sólo signos que no he leído bien.

Quisiera que este fluir de pensamientos
grabe transparente cada letra,
con la misma escritura del mar en las arenas
y la misma cósmica piedad que la vida
despliega ante mis ojos.

En instantes como este, ruedo como gota de lluvia
sobre un vidrio, buscando un dios que me ataje.

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Written by Zeleira Cordero @zeleiracordero

11/12/18


The images are from of Pixabay Creative Commons

Window by GimpWorkshop
Rain by 839646
Drip by Openpics

Separator:
Cat

For your kind reading...THANKS




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