Loves are not To Love.

«Let your heart be your map
and the rest will eventually take shape.»
Daudi Mayombwe

This morning I was trying to translate an old poem of mine (originally published on Spanish on February of 2005 at my first site), even I was not too proud of it, to show some of my forgotten paths to a new friend from Uganda. But, having on mind too many things lately, as the sense of humility or the meaning of words like «real», «confidence», or «truth», and feeling myself not able to avoid some strengths that pushes inside me right now, as the need to breath fresh air, or the deep will to meet the woman I care as soon as possible, face to face, hand on hand, step by step… after all these circumstances, something has shaken my hand and the blood beyond, like a soft earthquake, and my first poem took another shape on the new language, and I finally decided to follow its own movement and revisit some rooms of this trembling house, even if it could collapse. I don’t know if I will write poetry again someday on a «serious» way, but today at least I tried to open a new point of view about it. If anyone likes this try, should partly thank to Daudi.


*

To Daudi Mayombwe, a poet from Kampala,
for his wise encouragement.

To Barbie Martínez, a friend from Chicago,
for her precious trust.

To Lorena Sturlese, an artist from Barcelona,
for her touching inspiration.



Loves are not To Love


Stars raining slowly from a thin half moon
the mouth’s bright of an earthenware pitcher
pouring its brilliant content over the horizon
teardrops, shining and lukewarm, as clean honey
filling a cup of light

Leaves like stars of strong paper coming off a tree
depriving it of its glaucous and amber dress
stripping its shoulders on dissipating the robes
leaving the gray skin polished, as a naked dancer
at the mercy of the cold

That’s the way of the brave
when they Love and pay the price
nothing to do with the slave
when their loves seek their prize

Convulsed little drops of familiar sorrows,
dearly tiny griefs, all the stained stings
dotting as those fake stars a night sky,
as those plastic leaves the top of the tree
becoming nothing, waning
while the infinite heaven’s vault remains
the inmensity of space stills breathing
the roots of the oak, the trunk of the baobab
stay firm, powerful, and longevous
rather on the seed of what is to come
than in the shadow of the past strength

«To Love» are not ephemeral diamonds
scattered over a dark cover to shine on
it is the blackened night that holds up the luminaries
and it is also the dawn of the blinding day
where all that fistful of lies shall be erased

«To Love» is an endless ocean
where they swarm, almost imperceptible,
logs invaded by seaweed, shipwreck’s remains,
nothing but rusted hardware

Everything will finish swallowed by the waves
the foam will rub out our names
all our silly battles will sink on the deep
but the ocean is always there, as a lying shelter
because real Love is the bottom itself to rest
for those brave souls for whom the sea is done

«To Love» are not shooting twinkles,
it is the background
are not brushstrokes,
it is the canvas