Andrés Álvarez Arboleda, Colombia
LIKE A WARY BIRD
WAR
The Poems
THAT SMELL OF DEAD TREES
That smell of dead trees
arrived with midnight:
it was you, the announcement of your lingering
on this bank of the river.
It was you and news of war
navigating through a murky graveyard,
yet without flowers.
Other bodies arrived at the shelter
and all remained nameless.
We would say,
man, aged thirty-four,
–four bullets in his abdomen–
greets the sun with his hands.
We would say,
a hand, just the hand
awaits its owner in that rock.
Rigor mortis:
Magdalena river.
That smell of dead trees
arrived with midnight:
It was you and the collapse of your childhood
asking us for flowers.
But there are no flowers here either.
That smell of dead trees
arrived with midnight:
it was you, the announcement of your lingering
on this bank of the river.
It was you and news of war
navigating through a murky graveyard,
yet without flowers.
Other bodies arrived at the shelter
and all remained nameless.
We would say,
man, aged thirty-four,
–four bullets in his abdomen–
greets the sun with his hands.
We would say,
a hand, just the hand
awaits its owner in that rock.
Rigor mortis:
Magdalena river.
That smell of dead trees
arrived with midnight:
It was you and the collapse of your childhood
asking us for flowers.
But there are no flowers here either.
*
ESE OLOR DE ÁRBOLES MUERTOS
Ese olor de árboles muertos
vino con la medianoche:
eras tú y el anuncio de tu estancia
en este lado del río.
Eras tú y la noticia de la guerra
navegando un camposanto turbio
y sin flores.
Otros cuerpos llegaron a la ramada
y todos se quedaron sin nombre.
Decíamos,
hombre de treinta y cuatro años
–cuatro balas en el abdomen–
saluda el sol con las manos.
Decíamos,
una mano, sola la mano
aguarda un dueño en esa piedra.
Rigor mortis:
río Magdalena.
Ese olor de árboles muertos
vino con la medianoche:
eras tú y la caída de tu infancia
pidiéndonos flores.
Pero aquí tampoco hay flores.
* * *
WAR
Someone would speak of the empty house
or of the inclined eave
in the swift passing of the bombs,
but some had eyes full of dirt,
others had dry mouths
from cradling litters of dust,
and no one knows the foreign tongue.
Someone would tell the news
of a country torn apart
to receive the gifts of hospitality,
if the host were not its executioner.
Someone would say something else
but the words would be the words
of a death mouth.
*
GUERRA
Alguien hablaría de la casa vacía
o del alero inclinado
al paso rasante de las bombas,
pero unos tienen los ojos llenos de tierra,
otros tienen la boca seca
por acunar camadas de polvo,
y nadie sabe la lengua extranjera.
Alguien contaría la noticia
del país deshecho
para recibir los dones de la hospitalidad,
si el anfitrión no fuera su verdugo.
Alguien diría algo más
pero sus palabras serían las palabras
de una boca muerta.
The Poet
Andrés Álvarez Arboleda (El Carmen de Viboral, Colombia, 1991). Poet, lawyer and university professor. Master of literature. Author and editor of Opinion a la Plaza (online magazine). His poems are collected in the work That smell of dead trees (Ese olor de árboles muertos), and have been published in poetry magazines from Colombia, Argentina, Spain, and Venezuela.