Todas las colinas despertaron - All the hills woke up - 365 days of poetry challenge-Day 98

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¡Saludos, Weku!
Este poema forma parte del Desafío de 365 días de poesía inspirado en la foto propuesta, muy amablemente, por @kimi a quien agradezco la recepción y el apoyo. Esta es mi entrada 98 y espero les guste.

Greetings, Weku!
This poem is part of the Challenge of 365 day of poetry inspired by the photo proposed, very kindly, by @kimi whom I thank for the reception and support. This is my entry 98 and I hope you like it.


"Un pueblo oprimido y devastado tarde o temprano despertará y será un infierno para el opresor".

Maximino Márquez

Todas las colinas despertaron

Cada colina está unida a su sombra
y ha reproducido su forma,
desnudando su imagen, quedando atado
a otro mundo, uno blanco al fin del bosque,
frente a la claridad de su deseo de tocar el cielo.
Ahora tiene muchas fauces y un frío que muerde.
Las del fondo, parecen bultos de animal amorfo,
con algo de ave o de quimera.
A un tiempo, ahora, son macho y hembra,
a un tiempo miran a diestra, siniestra y arriba,
hechos nudos bifrontes
que prolonga la muerte en otra vida,
su vida en otra muerte.
Un pueblo que intenta escapar, pero le cuesta,
hay tantos huesos al fondo de su cuerpo,
hay tanta sangre que corre por sus venas,
transfigurado, sinuoso, majestuoso,
cubierto por la nieve del tiempo.
Cantan sin plumas, con voz ronca,
insomne en su alarido, la primera.
Después, las demás
la secundaron en medio de una tarde íngrima
y al fin todas las colinas despertaron
cantando sin cesar, rebeldes,
dando gritos y gritos que suben hasta las estrellas.
Creció un eco a la sombra, la luna en el pico mayor
era otra piedra feroz, desgañitada,
gritando: ¡Ya basta! ¡Libertad! Con furia.


"An oppressed and devastated people will sooner or later wake up and be a hell for the oppressor."

Maximino Márquez

All the hills woke up

Each hill is joined to its shadow
and has reproduced its form,
stripping himself of his image, tying himself up.
to another world, a white one at the end of the forest,
before the clearness of his desire to touch the sky.
Now he has many jaws and a biting cold.
The ones in the background look like bulges of an amorphous animal,
like a bird or a chimera.
At one time, now, they are men and women,
at the same time, they look right, left and up,
bifronted knots,
that prolongs death in another life,
his life in another death.
A people that tries to escape, but it is difficult for him,
there are so many bones at the bottom of his body,
there's so much blood running through his veins,
transfigured, sinuous, majestic,
covered by the snow of time.
They sing without feathers, in a hoarse voice,
insomniac in his scream, the first,
then, the others,
She was seconded in the middle of a single afternoon,
and finally all the hills woke up
singing incessantly, rebels,
screaming and screaming at the stars.
An echo grew to the shadow, the moon at its highest peak,
is another fierce stone, screaming,
shouting: That's enough! Freedom! With fury.


Written by Zeleira Cordero @corderozeleira.


Photo by Orlova Maria on Unsplash

Simplemente Gracias

For your kind reading... Thanks!

6985591ee86eebb8920d6ce133a86550 simplemente gracias (2).jpg

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