Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín

In rib cages


In rib cages,
Hearts pound out their fandango.
They are at the height of their binge,
blinded by alcohol and lights.

They open and close cautious eyelids,
their red scarves pulsate,
they rejoice in their leaps.

Powerful illiterates,
unaware of newspapers and roads,
they live neurotically,
trying to capture and scatter time.

Suns of our bodies,
automatic diving watches.
Sometimes it pleases God
to rest in state in their triangles.

Not accountable for our ruin
that each moment comes closer,
glorious acrobats
accompany us trough life,
as if not doing much at all.

This Monday night at eleven,
the hearts are crazy mad.
They are born and die, over and over,
in their rib cages.

We gently greet one another,
skeletons
look-alikes, all bundled up.
We talk about hunger
and deal with important business.

The hearts don’t.
Buried in their narrow jails,
they stamp their feet and sob,
they rejoice in their leaps.

Oh drums that resonate
this Monday night at eleven,
when hearts are called together
to ask for a raise
or go on strike!

Beware!
The world of the hearts
is armor-plated.

Above, the planets
observe
their calendar whirl.

Blinded by alcohol and lights,
they pound and pound out
their fandango.

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

Natalia Rendón

 

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