Carayan Press: Bosquejos/Sketches
Socorro


Oh Poeta, ven, te pido socorro.
Aclárame este dolor que yo siento.
Yo no sé si es azul, violeta o púrpura,
si viene, ay, de las noches perdidas,
espesas y ahogadas en el profundo
mar que atormenta mi paz temerosa,
frágil, tan inestable y angustiada,
o si viene del viento sanguinario
de la cruel verdad que me sigue espiando,
pero no se muestra y no me confiesa
lo que oculta, guarda y calla en sus ojos
negros, opacos, fríos, solitarios.


Poeta, profeta de los corazones,
mago que del caos de los sentimientos
plasmas y das vida a lo fugitivo,
a lo incomprensible y a lo confuso
con tus palabras, luciérnagas que
dan señales de vida y esperanza,
belleza y alegría, claridad
donde ha desaparecido la luz
volátil que tanto nos hace falta.
¡Poeta, consuélame con tus luciérnagas,
pequeñas estrellas, tan delicadas,
pero en mi alma, potentes como el sol!
Come to my aid


Oh Poet, I beseech you, come to my aid.
This sorrow I feel, clarify and explain.
Tell me, is it blue, purple or violet?
Does it come from the lost nights,
thick and drowned in the deep sea
that torments my fearful peace,
fragile, so unstable and anguished,
or does it come from the bloodthirsty wind
of the cruel truth that doesn’t cease to spy on me,
does not reveal itself and does not confess
what it hides, what it keeps and silences in its eyes,
black and opaque, cold and solitary?


Poet, prophet of the heart,
magician who from the chaos of feelings
mould and bring to life
the fleeting, the incomprehensible and confusing
with your words, fireflies
that give signs of life and hope,
beauty and joy, clarity
where light has disappeared,
light so volatile and that we so need.
Poet, console me with your fireflies,
such delicate little stars,
but in my soul, as powerful as the sun!
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