Month: December 2014

48

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ALBADA AMB CLÍMENE

amanecer con climene

Des d’ací, es veu a la nimfa en tota la seua esplendor. La seua pell, el seu cos clar, l’albada reflectida al seu coll. L’eterna línia de la columna, els clotets sobre les natges. La melena solta, inundant el coixí. Despreocupada de mi i de tots, juga a semblar inert a la tranquil·litat del seu repòs. Juga a dormir sense deixar-me entrar al seu somni.

La nimfa sempre em dóna l’esquena. Ara, quan intente fer-li l’amor; i també quan es mostra hermètica i incompassiva davant els meus intents de beure-li els llavis, o regalar-li els meus ulls. Té massa pretendents; però poc o molt, els ignora a tots.

La nimfa ronseja al llenç blanc del seu llit, dibuixa colines i muntanyes amb el cos. Li mire els moretons del costat. Maldita nimfa, perquè no em deixaràs estimar-te, perquè no allunyaràs dels teus malucs a tots eixos que et fan mal, que prenen la teua esquena –la sempiterna esquena que ara et bese- i marquen en ella els seus dits d’homes bèsties, els seus cops d’inconscients. No, nimfa, no; no veus que t’estan desgastant?

A la llum del matí, la nimfa es veu increïblement bella, misteriosa, com un riu que recórrer o un manoll d’estels. La seua pell fa olor a canyella, a sàndal; i més enllà, a mesc i fruites. A encens del d’església els seus pits, que endevine quan corone el cim del seu coll. I el seu ventre, que fa olor a pa, com fa olor el ventre de les dones bones.

Potser estime a la nimfa. Només potser. El desig es confon amb l’odi d’una manera tan fàcil… Com estimar la seua esquena impertorbable, la seua tossudesa incommovible, el seu rostre misteriós de dona coqueta. Com no desitjar ser cada un d’eixos rajos de sol per a posar-se en la seua pell i penetrar-la amb dolçor, i escalfar-li el cor. Com no deixar-se la vida en l’intent de veure-la somriure, resolta entre els meus braços, allunyada dels moretons de tots aquells que mai, mai degueren haver-la tocat.

47

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Mwen paka tann ayen. Yo ka kriyé libèté. Yo ka kriyé égalité. Yo ka hélé fraternité mé mwen pa ka tann ayen. Sé gadé mwen ka gadé. Vwè mwen ka vwè, mé mwen paka tann ayen.

Mwen ka vwè bouch a yo ka ouvè, ka fèmé. Mwen sav byen yo ka palé mé mwen paka tann ayen. Yo ka fè gran jès, yo ka soté-maté. Yo ka pran mikro pou tout moun tann yo, mé mwen paka tann pon mo.

Mwen décidé mwen paka tann ayen. Mwen soud. Mwen paka tann ayen. Mwen ka sonjé lè mwen té ka kouté, lè mwen té ka tann. Pawòl yo té ka palé pou fè mwen révé. Dousè a mo a yo rivé dousiné tchè mwen é fè mwen karésé lespwa. Mwen ka sonjé lè mwen té ka kouté é mwen té ka kwè tout bèl pawòl, tout bèl pwomès. Mwen ka sonjé lanné ka pasé é ayen, ayen pa jen chanjé. Jodila, mwen paka tann ayen. Mwen soud. Mwen désidé zorèy an mwen fèt pou zanno, yo pa fèt pou kouté. Mon chè, mwen paka tann ayen. Ou pé palé, kriyé, chanté. Mwen ka ri, mwen paka tann ayen.

Mwen rantré andidan mwen. On mélodi ka jouwè ban mwen tousèl. An fon tchè an mwen, on ti son ka bat, ka chanté, ka fè mwen lévé chak jou. Ti mélodi an mwen. Ti son tanbou a tchè an mwen ka ban mwen fòs pou lévé é maché é gadé yo ka palé-kriyé-chanté. Mwen menm, mwen paka tann ayen.

47

  By

Of Walls & Beasts

Of all the things she could have said to him she chose the one that made less noise of all. That short, lousy combination of words rushed out of her mouth, through dry lips that he would never kiss again; for all the beautiful things in his life were cruelly destined to disappear.

“I think you should…” she started in a broken thin voice.

The air around them froze, so the rest of her words had no way of reaching his ears. There was no use for it anyway, as he had already lost the will to listen when he saw what her eyes were saying. He turned his gaze away –the ice around them cutting every single inch of his skin –as the world fell apart without him expecting it.

As he slowly walked towards the wall, he could barely hear her remaining words; she sounded like an echo of the person she once  had been, her voice alienated by the unbearable look in her eyes. He reached the cold surface with the palm of his right hand, before leaning his head towards the whiteness, until his right ear was flat against the wall.

He heard nothing. There was no last advice, no comforting song coming from the heart of the bricks, not a single wise whisper to be heard. He trembled as he grasped the first handful of gypsum and brick out of the wall. He did the same with his left hand, tearing apart another piece of the white cold wall. His fingers would come first, penetrating the wall as a knife stabbing meat, followed by tense hands that would easily tear off chunks of debris. By clinching his fists, he turned the pieces of brick into dust, following an almost mechanical ritual.

During all this time she had been looking past him, her eyes aiming at a point beyond his figure, apart from the things he had always known; somewhere too far away for him to reach. Only once she dared to look at the huge hole in the wall, just in time to see his silhouette disappearing through it. The rest of the time she just kept on looking at someplace beyond that room.

That is why she could not see the beasts coming.