What Matters, Vivi?
You sing that Neruda poem
As the ancients
Of Machu Picchu
Unclench their stony fists.
Your voice resonates
With the ghosts surrounding us,
Yet, I think that song
Is all that is needed.
I memorize the breath of your hair
As Pedro says:
“All there is in life is poetry, art, music…
The rest is bullshit.”
But I see more.
Sometimes.
I see wet bodies
Atop beds of flowers
Filleted by the pleasant squeeze
Of The Gardener’s shears.
I see the storm coming
To this desert flower of a city.
The rain falls into the sand and on the street
Like kisses to a dry, naked belly.
I see poetry and paintings and drunks together
Beneath these megalopolitan shadows
As you reminisce on what was, is,
And what might be hereafter.
I hear you sing of the ancient rocks
That are unclenching their fists a world away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem