EL NORTE

                                                Photo by Axel Hütte

Going north means going

into something deeper than silence.

Mist hangs for hours in the woods

and the apparitions singing in dreams

know places we will never see.

You will know you are north

by the edges of the day

and the slight aura surrounding the trees.

Something in your muscles will be trying

to remember ancient directions,

the way into old hunting grounds,

and if you died and someone

threw your bones into the water

they would swim together

and form a long arrow pointing north.

  

                                                               Michael Delp

Dos manos cercenadas salen de la tierra, de nuevo nutridas.

Aletean púrpuras como los hilos de las lilas, como dos

tendones deshilachados a medias.

Unos ojos caídos o las hojas

lloran sangre desde la tierra enmohecida, y con la luna

las manos atraen la violencia de la ciudad, lo

primitivo. 

                                                       Photo by Josef Sudek

(...)

" You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"

"They called me the hyacinth girl."

- Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of the light, the silence.

  

                                 (...)                                                               

                                                  The burial of the death (The Waste Land) T.S. ELIOT