Monday, March 30, 2009

i.m.

Escribo.

There is something in the air, I feel it. The whole world is feeling this. I know. But we all hush, because it has been not given to us to say it. Because it is not our place. But then,

Escribo que escribo.

And the whole world, on the verge of collapsing, of entropy. Why did you refuse to scratch these pages with your pen? When did you see what we all crave to see? Did you watch it all, oh, Saint John Apostle? Did you see the angels, the would be demons, all together over Pathmos?

Mentalmente me veo escribir que escribo y también puedo verme ver que escribo.

Of course you knew it. You and only you heard the raven screaming -but only because you tore its heart out, only because you dug deep with its beak in your ear. And then, if anybody could have been there, they could have seen you, blood trickling down your nude chest. Listening to the sound of trumpets. But there was only silence. Like this relentless silence, a preemptive calm.

Me recuerdo escribiendo ya y también viéndome que escribía.

Do you, really? I wonder.

Y me veo recordando que me veo escribir y me recuerdo viéndome recordar que escribía y escribo viéndome escribir que recuerdo haberme visto escribir que me veía escribir que recordaba haberme visto escribir que escribía y que escribía que escribo que escribía.

How many times did you try? That, I swear, will be my only question. How many times you tried to chop off your own hand?, but the left refused to do the godless deed, or maybe, only maybe, you actually wanted to warn us? Yes? Liar. We all know you only did it because he forced you, just like he forced you to eat your own shit, to drink your own piss. To let us know: there is no way out, there will be no salvation.

También puedo imaginarme escribiendo que ya había escrito que me imaginaría escribiendo que había escrito que me imaginaba escribiendo que me veo escribir que escribo.

Once more, there it is. The beautiful quietness of a crisp afternoon in the Island. Your womb, your crib, your casket, your mortuary homage. A sunk and lonely mountain. Will you remember this when you wake up?

2 Comments:

Blogger javier moro said...

Hola, me gust{o mucho este texto. Es una extraña mexcla de sueño, realidad, fantasía ppética, en la que además la conjugación de los idionas lo ahce aún más hermoso. Felicidades.

Thursday, 09 April, 2009  
Blogger efg said...

Gracias por darte una vuelta por el blokh...
El texto en español por supuesto no es mío, sino del gran Salvador Elizondo, que por estas fechas cumple tres años de haber muerto...
Por eso lo de i.m. -in memoriam-
Me da gusto que te haya gustado.
Saludo.

Thursday, 09 April, 2009  

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