Esas cosas que en el hoy no tienen nombre...

Autora del poema: Mora Amaro

Por cortesia de Mora Amaro...

"Como una mosca en la lengua de una rana,

así me veo,

atrapada por el voraz apetito del final de una vida

que me convierte en presa

de su despedida,

y mientras me veo engullida por las fauces de la bestia,

el tiempo acelerado se convierte en un momento eterno

lleno de noches y días

y de horas repetidas,

horas que van pintando un rostro ajado que antes no había

y que me mira ajeno a su verdad desnuda,

realidad imparable que tamizo con la mano de mi silencio

para que no note la herida que devora sus adentros

y gracias a ese silencio

yo soy otra,

una mera observadora de un adiós lleno de espanto

dándome así distancia

para no caer en el llanto

cuando observo ese respiro

que sin saberlo

se va"

--- *---

Like a fly on the tongue of a frog,

like that I see me,

trapped by the voracious appetite of the end of a life

that makes me prey of its departure,

and while I see myself swallowed by the jaws of the beast,

accelerated time becomes an eternal moment

full of nights and days and of repeated hours,

hours that paint a faded face that was not there before

looking at me oblivious of her naked truth,

unstoppable reality that I sift with the hand of my silence

so she will not notice the wound that devours her inside,

silence that makes me another one,

merely observer of a goodbye filled with horror,

giving me distance to avoid falling into tears

while I observe this breath that unknowingly is dying.

Original video by Mora Amaro & Marcus Nalgaber

© all rights reserved by onacarom.com

Autora del poema: Mora Amaro

Hola a todos.

Ese olor que, de repente, aparece en tu nariz y te lleva a un lugar en el que algo de ti se quedó perdido.

Original video by Mora Amaro & Marcus Nalgaber

Tristeza, una luz extraña que alarga las sombras

Paris, dos amantes, un café y el tiempo que gira...

Version En Ingles

Life, how bitter is the taste of your ink!

Life that made me ink and bits of paper,

life, in which everything happens in a strict order,

as if it were a game,

with so much quantum mathematics,

that they wrap me until making me raving like a lunatic.

Everything happens in a strict order,

as if it were a game,

but in my delirium I change the rhythm

with the beat of that me that,

for not to die,

becomes another,

Life, how bitter is the taste of your ink!

Life that made me ink and bits of paper.

And like this, disseminated in me,

without knowing,

I fly, I fly.

© all rights reserved by onacarom.