Como nunha praia
á última hora da tarde
cando os gritos da infancia
son un feble recordo
e xa as gaivotas grabaron
os seus xeroglíficos na area
e aparece por fin a respiración
do mar sobre todas as cousas
síntome de súpeto pinga
de aceite do cárter
aboiando no máis afastado
do inmenso Pacífico
unha unidade insoluble
onde a vida non prende
gota illada no infindo soidal
Solitude-field
Like on a beach
in the late afternoon
when the cries of childhood
are a faint memory
and already the seagulls wrote
their hieroglyphs in the sand
and finally above all things
the breathing of the sea appears
I feel suddenly like a drop
of crankcase oil
floating in the farthest
of the immense Pacific
an insoluble unit
where life doesn’t grab
isolated tear in a huge solitude-field
I found your poem powerful and effective!
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Thanks for your point of view Luisa. Sometimes I fall in deep wells where even the idea of writing seems absurd. Your comments give me hope.
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🙏🤗❣️
As always, you’re more than welcome 💐
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