elevación del ser
ELEVACIÓN DEL SER
Quieren olvidar que Dios resplandece a través del arcoiris;
que la brisa, en las calles tumultuosas,
es un recuerdo de las flautas escondidas en los bosques.
Quieren olvidar que en mí los días se mueven en el canto de las aves.
Que en las noches yo enciendo una alta fuente luminosa
para llenar de colores mi fabulosa ciudad dormida.
Se atan a la rueda de hierro que, sorda, da vueltas en el viento,
haciendo caer el filo frío de un hacha
sobre las venas de las maravillas.
Han hecho sangrar el mundo,
entre los árboles, bajo las estrellas,
en el canto de los más humildes labradores.
Me han hecho sangrar en la despedida del día,
cuando vagando en un río profundo de rumores,
ayudo a encender la múltiple mirada de los cielos.
No se han acercado nunca a las ventanillas
que dan a los niños y a las arpas.
Van corriendo, despavoridos; en el tiempo,
bajo la cola de un cometa
que pretenden inventar con la angustia de su miedo,
y no saben que el aerolito es una rosa desprendida
de un alto jardín esplendoroso.
Quieren olvidar que todo esto es una pequeña fruta
prendida a la luz de un infinito árbol de milagros,
y que yo, desde el silencio, oigo silbar el viento en las estrellas.
Vicente Gerbasi
Bosque Doliente
Venezuela (1940)
Elevation of the Being
They want to forget that God shines through the rainbow;
that the breeze, in the tumultuous streets,
is a reminder of the flutes hidden in the woods.
They want to forget that in me the days move through the singing of birds.
That during the night I light up a high bright fountain
to fill with colors my fabulous sleeping city.
They attach to the iron wheel that, deaf, turns in the wind,
making the cold blade of an ax drop
on the veins of wonders.
They have made the world bleed,
between the trees, under the stars,
in the singing of the humblest farmers.
They have made me bleed in the farewell of the day,
when wandering in a deep river of rumors,
I help light up the multiple eyes of heaven.
They have never come near the windows
that look to the children and the harps.
They go running, terrified; in time,
under the tail of a comet
seeking to invent their anguish of fear,
and do not know that the meteorite is a rose detached
from a high splendorous garden.
They want to forget that this is a small fruit
turned on the light of an infinite tree of miracles,
and I, in silence, hear the wind whistling in the stars.
Vicente Gerbasi
Mourning forest
Venezuela (1940)
They want to forget that God shines through the rainbow;
that the breeze, in the tumultuous streets,
is a reminder of the flutes hidden in the woods.
They want to forget that in me the days move through the singing of birds.
That during the night I light up a high bright fountain
to fill with colors my fabulous sleeping city.
They attach to the iron wheel that, deaf, turns in the wind,
making the cold blade of an ax drop
on the veins of wonders.
They have made the world bleed,
between the trees, under the stars,
in the singing of the humblest farmers.
They have made me bleed in the farewell of the day,
when wandering in a deep river of rumors,
I help light up the multiple eyes of heaven.
They have never come near the windows
that look to the children and the harps.
They go running, terrified; in time,
under the tail of a comet
seeking to invent their anguish of fear,
and do not know that the meteorite is a rose detached
from a high splendorous garden.
They want to forget that this is a small fruit
turned on the light of an infinite tree of miracles,
and I, in silence, hear the wind whistling in the stars.
Vicente Gerbasi
Mourning forest
Venezuela (1940)
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