INTERIOR LANDSCAPE Poem by Fernando Denis

To Fernando Duque
Aged in the barracks of memory,
In the infernos of Piranesi,
I meditate on the colors that light
The skylights and the windows.
After visiting this enormous, dark palace,
The dream, awakened in a language that has
Forgotten my name,
I feel the odor of the ashes of dawn,
I think about my grandsons playing on the plain
When the train passes by with rusty music
On the rails. At this hour colors dream they are already colors.
At this hour the soul of the god of colors aches,
I look at the sky petrifying a blue villain
And a grey of portentous mane,
Of luminous eyes amid dark clouds.
I know I will die soon and to the pupils of my eyes
Will come these paintings, these pure frescoes where love is,
The love I knew in America.
And at my back, a landscape I no longer know.
The cold bolt of lightning on these wet walls
Draws shadows of scorpions feeding on light.
I lift the blind weight of this strange
Bloodied body
To go up the iron steps and go down a thousand times
Until tired I try to fall asleep,
I open again my mortal eyes
And again the incredulous firmament of gold
Is magnified under my eyelids of glass,
My steps leave colored footprints on the slanting staircase,
Invisible colors hit against the void of time
And infinitely madden the man in chains.
The unfortunate, the one tortured forever
(An old shakesperean, a vanishing Lear)
Feels my repeated steps on the cold iron
Of the stairs, shouts with unhampered frenzy,
Utters insults,
Trembles like a wounded animal.
Has vertigo. Burns in furies and tears.
Under the dirty light of the skylights his chains
Emit splendors.
There are whole days in which the dramatist
Shows himself unconscious,
And in the dawn outraged by yellow birds
Pronounces between sighs the name of a woman.
'Ophelia,' he says, 'Ophelia'.
Then he remains rigid,
He seems a statue of stone
And his strong body of stone perspires with the heavy
Sweat of the chains.
Now he begins to whistle an old Caribbean melody,
A curious sharp whistle repeated at sunset
By the demon when lashing the sea with chains.
I can no longer bear that melody in my ears,
The strange sound of his bloodied lips terrifies me.
With uncommon rage I go up and down the stairs,
I let my shoes hit the iron
With more violence, but my effort is useless,
The horrible whistle persists.
I must run through dark passages leading
Nowhere, I go through doors of color,
I despair because of the suspending bridges of ropes
About to break,
Of bridges leading to corridors where ancient voices
Read ancient books,
Of bridges from where I see the blind marble lions.
Sometimes I throw myself into the well of mirrors
Where I find the pain of an image.
Oh god of the mind's labyrinths,
Show me your face!
Come and erase from the mirrors the cruel tears.
When will it be that free of dungeons
And of sordid, misty passages
I can define the landscape I saw for the first time?
When will I be rid of this inferno of colors?
At this time my feet burn, my entrails hurt,
I am scared by the horror created by my brushes.