Oblivion Is In The Mailbox Poem by Jotamario Arbeláez

The mailman is spinning his cap early on his bicycle today
The mailman who goes around delivering a host of information
Mailbox number eight is where the dog of my hope barks
Into that mailbox have fallen some of the most unjust excommunications and dead leaves

This is not a love poem this is let's say quite an oblivion
Where to put this oblivion that's as heavy as my bad luck

Oblivion oblivion it is good to oblivionize when one is the oblivious
You're welcome oblivion tomorrow you'll be damned at the other end

I welcome and I am happy with this oblivious guest of my sympathies
This oblivion beneficial for my glands
Which has the faculty of telling me about the time in which I live
And I turn the keys
The long distances covered under the hole in my sock
The contagious smell of tobacco pouches
The cold nocturnal screech of trumpets
The sharpness of poisons on the tips of my words
The silk softness of cushions in the barbershop
Where every two years they shave away my past

Which bed drawer to empty to lay this beloved oblivion to rest
This oblivion that has more strengths than all the forces of my soul
That has more right to life than the son of a female pope
Where to leave it with its wings pinned
So that it does not escape like a penitent or like a butterfly

How to protect this oblivion that has more fingers than a typist
That could not be bought with a million fish
How to protect this oblivion so that people won't step on it
Insure it in the most powerful insurance company in the world?
Not that not ever
Found a shelter for oblivions?
Place it in storage like a jewel in the vaults of a bank?
Put it in the aroma of the rose that I pin on my breast lapel?
Give it to the notary who has already falsified my will four times?
Bottle it and cast it from my schooner with a firm stopper
so that it won't drown in the ocean?

I don't know what to do with this oblivion that's disappearing from my memory

Translation: 2006, Nicolás Suescún