Author: Gocho Bersolari Translation: Maria Eugenia Caseiro
From the book The Girl and the death.

Your murderer

Your murderer was your lover.
Dark he crossed the forests,
twisting nervous his heavy hands,
stepping on branches with his boots.
He persisted on his grim watch
the traces of your barefoot feet.
In his eyes the sky stopped,
loading itself of clouds
and it untied the rains of the night.

It was the wind rampant,
the furious bridge
by which you arrived at the niche of the night
A single one of its hands in your neck
turned around the seam of the things,
opened the valves o the Earth
and inaugurated roots
in your feet,
your buttoks,
your back.

Later he caressed your recent dead body:
they were his your fleshes,
they were his your half-closed eyes,
they were his your dreams......
…and it gave you to the night
in a quiet howl.

Celebration of the insects
in the moon,
the humidity and the lumps.
Celebration in the opaque brightness of your eyes.
Celebration in the roots
and in the depth of the Earth.
Celebration around your body,
pale like the moon,
accumulating seas
underneath your skin.

Your death
filled the night of garlands,
opened to the fire of the shades
and uttered songs
in the wild joy of your flesh,
the immense joy of your pores
tending towards the anything.

While your murderer
tended dark chains
towards the pink arcs of your feet.
He made you his perpetual wife
in the dark wedding of the worm.

Now he looks at you from the wind:
half-closed eyes,
loose hair on the pillow of the leaves
and the feet opened to the night.
Your beauty
tends prolongations to the Earth
and the moon
mixes its silver blood with yours.

Now your murderer
is a distant hurricane in the Balearics
He hunches you in the antipodal ones

while the Earth embraces to you slowly;
it leads lazily to you
towards the next empire of the worm.


Translation of Maria Eugenia Caseiro

Original text of Gocho Bersolari