Le estremeció el influjo de aquellos ojos verdes.
El encanto de luz de campo de sus labios,
y la palidez de los soles de los girasoles.
El ombligo imponía su soberania
desde un lugar privilegiado,
y a pocos centímetros,
un lunar perdido rompía el equilibrio.
El ombligo imponía su soberania
desde un lugar privilegiado,
y a pocos centímetros,
un lunar perdido rompía el equilibrio.
Vuela la imaginación del escultor
al correr de los dedos,
en busca de la inspiración perfecta,
para dar formas a tan exhausta belleza.
Cimbra el cincel, cruje la piedra.
Gozoso anda él, en busca de esas curvas mágicas
con que Dios labró aquella silueta.
Lunatico vive para moldear la garganta del rio,
que separa el estrecho confín
por donde navegar la barca.
Deja al artista embelesado la obra acabada,
cubierta con un manto de Santa.
Dijo en el acto; que nunca sería capaz,
a pesar de su empeño, de superar con sus manos,
a tan bella modelo.
WHO NAVEGATES MY BOAT
He shook with the influence of those green eyes.
The charm of the light field from her lips.
and the pallor of the suns of her sunflowers.
The naval imposed her sovereignty
from a priviledged place,
and a few centimeters away
the broken moon lost it´s equilibrium.
The imagination of the sculptor flew,
his fingers ran,
in search of the perfect inspiration,
to find forms of such exhausted beauty.
He shored his chisel, he cracked the stone.
He walked joyously in search of those magical curves.
in which god had carved with that silhouette.
He lived to mould the throat of her sweet river,
that separates the confined stretch
where the boat navegates.
The enraptured artist left his finished work,
covered with a blanket of santa.
He said in his act, that he would never be able,
despite his efforts, to overcome with his hands,
such a beautiful model.
Colección : Sin musa no hay poesia
WHO NAVEGATES MY BOAT
He shook with the influence of those green eyes.
The charm of the light field from her lips.
and the pallor of the suns of her sunflowers.
The naval imposed her sovereignty
from a priviledged place,
and a few centimeters away
the broken moon lost it´s equilibrium.
The imagination of the sculptor flew,
his fingers ran,
in search of the perfect inspiration,
to find forms of such exhausted beauty.
He shored his chisel, he cracked the stone.
He walked joyously in search of those magical curves.
in which god had carved with that silhouette.
He lived to mould the throat of her sweet river,
that separates the confined stretch
where the boat navegates.
The enraptured artist left his finished work,
covered with a blanket of santa.
He said in his act, that he would never be able,
despite his efforts, to overcome with his hands,
such a beautiful model.
Collection: Without muse there is no poetry
Translation: Sarah Louise Bussey
