Imagen de Flor Garduño
Oda
a la mujer que camina
(a continuación de Alberto
Giacometti )
Siéntate
debes de estar cansada
de caminar,
de perderte
de está forma:
una costilla bronceada
de agotamiento
merma
contra
la oscuridad.
Siéntate
aún hay cosas
en las que creer;
como las civilizaciones
y los nacimientos
y el amor.
Y los ancestros
que se mueven
como silenciosos afluentes
desde poblados de rojas tierras
con el pasado acunado
en sus míticos brazos.
Pero escucha
¿Qué sucede si crecen
a través de las puertas
de tu ciudad esplendorosa?
¿Caminarás al borde
de sus aguas
con tus pies sumergidos
para sentirlos debajo
bailando?
Chicas del estridente Mohenjodaro
con brazaletes en las muñecas
y labios de cinabrio,
madres de Harappan con turbante
apoyadas en amplias
piernas de terracota,
ovulo-pecho de Artemisa-
Inanna, Isthar, Cibeles, acoplan
sus corazones generosos
en la impenitente oscuridad
lloran: ¿Hija,
dónde están los graneros
y dónde desaparecen los grandes
baños?
Tú misma resucitarás,
haz el amor al cielo
recupera el mundo.
Tishani Doshi
Traducción María GERMANA MATTA
Ode to the walking woman
(After
Alberto Giacometti )
Sit -
you must be tired
of walking,
of losing yourself
this way:
a bronzed rib
of exhaustion
thinned out
against the dark.
Sit -
there are still things
to believe in;
like civilizations
and birthing
and love.
And ancestors
who move
like silent tributaries
from red-earthed villages
with history cradled
in their mythical arms.
But listen,
what if they swell
through the gates
of your glistening city?
Will you walk down
to the water’s edge,
immerse your feet
so you can feel them
dancing underneath?
Mohenjodaro’s brassy girls
with bangled wrists
and cinnabar lips;
turbaned Harappan mothers
standing wide
on terracotta legs;
egg-breasted Artemis –
Inana, Isthar, Cybele, clutching their bounteous hearts
in the unrepentant dark,
crying: 'Daughter,
where have the granaries
and great baths disappeared?
Won’t you resurrect yourself,
make love to the sky,
reclaim the world.'
Sit -
you must be tired
of walking,
of losing yourself
this way:
a bronzed rib
of exhaustion
thinned out
against the dark.
Sit -
there are still things
to believe in;
like civilizations
and birthing
and love.
And ancestors
who move
like silent tributaries
from red-earthed villages
with history cradled
in their mythical arms.
But listen,
what if they swell
through the gates
of your glistening city?
Will you walk down
to the water’s edge,
immerse your feet
so you can feel them
dancing underneath?
Mohenjodaro’s brassy girls
with bangled wrists
and cinnabar lips;
turbaned Harappan mothers
standing wide
on terracotta legs;
egg-breasted Artemis –
Inana, Isthar, Cybele, clutching their bounteous hearts
in the unrepentant dark,
crying: 'Daughter,
where have the granaries
and great baths disappeared?
Won’t you resurrect yourself,
make love to the sky,
reclaim the world.'
Fuente: Poem Hunter
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