Your city was a mirror where measured words watched you watching it: white mirror misted with your breath. Erased innocence, February is silence in your lips, flattened light, mute nonexistent city. Lone inhabitant of the cemeteries of ivory and grayed bones that stipple the boundaries of the jungle, this tiny scorpion the colour of milk fulfills with quiet efficiency its work as executioner of the old elephants who have come to die, no less serenely, at the temple of their ancestors.
Nothing Is Lost * [Seven poems] - Literal Magazine
Its venom is the distillation of the flesh it strips beneath the apparently-clean bones, its home the shadow of the few roots that spring to the surface, but its whiteness, according to native legends, has another origin: it is the whiteness of a bone that does not accept its end and revives taking a new shape, the secret paleness of what seeks to get back into the realm of time and is only, without knowing it, an envoy of death. Named thus for the bubbles that spring forth from its mouth when it croaks, enveloping it completely in a transparent gauze that highlights the shines and reflections of the light.
It then falls into a trance that is only broken by hunger and darkness, although on some nights the milky brilliance of the full moon awakes in it bubbles of singular patterns and colours, mirrors perhaps of the astral combinations that guide the courses of lives. Such is the belief of countless magicians, witches, and oracles that travel from town to town in search of a credulous purse and make use of them for their predictions and trickeries.
Certain natives of the marshes have specialized in their capture and later preservation,. Only when the toad has expired, drowned, wide-eyed and foolish, do they extract from the pot the crystal ball where a small wrinkled monster that never glimpsed its own fate is called upon to foretell that of others.
The clear light of January, so low, has found the bones of shapes. This marina is already my skull: foam and surf, unpeopled dunes, the bald restlessness of the gulls combing the quarries and the piers. I stand on what I see and it comes undone; it is a dead body, death that sounds me out. The clear light of January, so unmoving, confirms the carcass of this moment.
Programme-Notes booklet (16/6)
Nothing Is Lost. He has translated the work of W.
Auden, Anne Carson, T. He worked as Language Assistant at the University of Oxford 7 Current l y he l ives in Madrid, w h ere he w orks as freelance edi t or and translator. Buscando sin descanso la vida que guardaba adentro. Llama que fue deseo, nada te queda de aquel tiempo: letra muerta, aridez, desnutrido fulgor que los ojos remedan esperando un sentido.
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No hay regreso posible. Tu ciudad ya no existe.
Nothing Is Lost * [Seven poems]
Borrada inocencia, febrero es silencio en tus labios, luz arrasada, muda ciudad inexistente. Cae entonces en un trance que solo interrumpen el hambre y la oscuridad, aunque ciertas noches el resplandor lechoso de la luna llena le suscite burbujas de singulares patrones y colores, espejos tal vez de las combinaciones astrales que rigen el curso de las vidas. Ha traducido la obra de W. Actualmente vive en Madrid, donde trabaja como editor independiente y traductor.
Nada se pierde [Siete poemas]
He was popular both with the public and with King Philip IV, who first made him a knight of the order of Santiago and later, in , chaplain of honor. One of his best known plays is La Vida es Sueno Life Is a Dream, , the story of a prince who has been kept a prisoner all his life because of a prophecy that he will conquer his father. When the king drugs him and brings him to court to test the prophecy, the prince becomes so frenzied, he is returned to prison and convinced that the experience was a dream. When he is later released, he is confused about what is real, but ultimately, because he has learned to control his passions, his father cedes him the crown.
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Jornada segunda. Jornada tercera.