——
This text belongs to the public domain.
Symptoms Of Love
Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.
Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;
Are omens and nightmares –
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:
For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.
Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?
—-
This poem belongs to the public domain.
Interpelar a la arcilla.
Cuando el pobre
alza sus manos
hacia ti,
es dios
quien las alza,
demandando
la generosidad,
la dulzura,
que de él
provienen.
——
© Joaquín C. Plana. Traducción del Urdu.
El libro divino.
Tu dios
ha decidido
que un día mueras
y que no aceptes
su decisión.
——
© Joaquín C. Plana. Traducción del Urdu.
Poética.
Sobre las fontanelas
sonrían
canten las madres su felicidad.
——
© Joaquín C. Plana. Traducción del Urdu.
Volverá.
Partió a la guerra y prometió volver.
La lápida muestra el nombre del hijo
para hacer inequívoca la puerta
junto a la cual la madre espera.
——
© Joaquín C. Plana. Traducción del Urdu.
Sin título.
El hambre es generosa.
Recoge a las niñas de la calle, a los ancianos en el abandono.
——
© Joaquín C. Plana. Traducción del Urdu.
My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmur o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it had been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now ‘tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song.
——
This poem belongs to the Public Domain.
Wind rising in the alleys.
Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner
Streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams . . .
You are laden with beginnings . . .
There is hope in you . . . not sweet . . .
acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising in the alleys
Carrying stuff of flame.
——
This poem belongs to the public domain.