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ANTONIO CISNEROS / POETRY
You only gave me one summer,
you powerful ones

I.m. Lucho Hernandez

And when the moment comes, time will split open like the Red Sea under the sun of our fathers or the lights of an emergency ward. (Not even Holderlin’s summer did you grant me, o powerful Parcas). No more shrimps with almonds. Mornings are no longer auspicious or ominous. All there is now is an endless meadow where colts graze and the Lord loves us. Forgive me Lord, but I dread that endless meadow. I pursue life like a silent fox hunting down a mole at midnight.

Solo un verano me otorgais poderosas
I.m. Lucho Hernandez

Y llegado el momento el tiempo se abrira como el Mar Rojo bajo el sol de nuestros padres o la luz de una sala de emergencia.
(Ni el verano de Holderlin me otorgais oh Parcas poderosas.)
Ya no esos camarones con almendras. Ya no son fastas las mananitas o nefastas.
Ya solo una pradera inacabable donde pasta el potrillo y nos ama el Senor.
Perdoname Senor. Me aterra esa pradera inacabable. Sigo a la vida Como el zorro silente tras los rastros de un topo a medianoche.

The spirits of purgatory
The Virgin of Carmelo sways above the stage. It is not so great, perhaps, compared to the most serene Virgin of Lourdes, or the pomp of Our Lady of Paris. Her compassionate eyes, however, fill me with solace. Just like the rows of street lamps at twilight, when the day ends and night has yet to arrive. The yellow lights of the lampposts over the cliffs.
You just have to look at the way she holds Baby Jesus. Not at all like mothers with their first-born child, who always look distressed as if they were about to drop their baby at the first shove. Her expressionless face, more like that of a matron or a Madonna, announcing that after death, when all greed and anxiety cease, there will be a protective mantle for this poor little soul, released from the flesh recorded by tomography scans, with no time or memory, yet smouldering like a pig in a fire. Impossible, for sure, to imagine all that suffering without the certainty that the saintly Virgin of Carmelo, thick-set and good-natured, will stretch out her arms to us after thousands or perhaps millions of years have passed (after all, time does not exist in purgatory) and, with infinite patience, wipe away our tears and rid us of lice and predatory animals. Meanwhile up above the sound of trumpets and on earth our adored grandchildren celebrate with carob tree branches and a drum.

Las animas del purgatorio
La Virgen del Carmelo se bambolea en la parte superior del escenario. No es gran cosa, tal vez, si la comparo con la Virgen de Lourdes, tan serena, o con la pompa de Nuestra Senora de Paris. Sus ojos compasivos, sin embargo, me llenan de consuelo. Igual que las hileras de faroles cuando el dia se acaba y la noche no llega. Las luces amarillas de los postes sobre el acantilado. Solo hay que ver el modo en que sostiene al Nino Dios. No como las madres primerizas, siempre atribuladas, predispuestas a dejarlo caer al primer empellon. Ese rostro impasible, por el contrario, de matrona, mas que de madonna, nos anuncia que detras de la muerte, donde cesan la gula y el afan, hay un manto protector para esta pobre almita, ya libre de las carnes registradas por las tomografias, sin tiempo ni memoria y, sin embargo, ardiendo como un chancho entre el fogon. Imposible, es verdad, imaginarse todo ese sufrimiento sin tener la certeza de que la Santa Virgen del Carmelo, rechoncha y bonachona, va a extendernos sus brazos una vez pasados miles de anos o millones tal vez (en el purgatorio, total, no existe el tiempo) y enjugar nuestro llanto y despojarnos de piojos y alimanas con paciencia infinita. Mientras en las alturas resuenan las trompetas y en la tierra nos festejan los nietos adorados con ramas de algarrobo y un tambor.

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Antonio Cisneros (Lima, 1942) is considered one of the greatest Spanish-American poets. He recently received the Jose Donoso award in Chile. His Complete Poetry was put together by Peisa (Lima, 2001) and an important translation of his works has just appeared in Brazil.