Ricardo Alberto Maldonado
A man dies in this world by a fist
of trees, more than by our love.
When I was young, muscles were carved from the minerals
so we could be forgiven.
And yet, at the greeting of the birds,
I loved the work, loved its respite,
with which I wrote, the silt of our fears.
It rains this September in our world.
I've gained more from its wear.
Who am I to be yours in this compulsory
century, but a father, without possessive?
I loved. I loved. I love presently.
I fly its unavoidable flag,
that trade, a match for us in the cold,
a room in September,
our whitening bones, humid
in our melancholy.
There's nothing more to do but make it
ours. I waited with my lamp
to assemble birds for you,
then release them,
as if I were a child, to understand you,
like the fresh water
that washed over my hands.


Un hombre muere en algún mundo por el puño
de un árbol, más que por nuestro amor.
Cuando yo era pequeño, se labró un músculo
de su mineral para ser perdonado.
Y sin embargo, ante el saludo de los pájaros, amé la labor,
su respiro, que escribía con la mugre de nuestras ansias.
Llueve como septiembre en este mundo.
Tengo más por su desgaste.
¿Quién soy yo para ser suyos en este siglo
compulsorio, sino un padre, pero sin posesivo?
Amé. Amé. Yo amo.
Tengo su bandera insoslayable.
Ese oficio para nosotros como fósforo en el frío
en un cuarto de septiembre
con nuestros huesos blancos, húmedos
por la melancolía.
Queda más nada que hacerlo
nuestro. Esperaba con mi lámpara
para inventar pájaros para ustedes
e impulsarlos
como cuando pequeño, para entenderlos,
como el agua fresca
que me dejó las manos.
from the book THE LIFE ASSIGNMENT / Four Way Books
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