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sábado, 28 de junio de 2014

Sermón de la meseta - 101



Entrenas por curiosidad, por ver de qué va la cosa, hasta que le sientes el ritmo y algo te impulsa a ir a por más. Entrenas hasta cansarte, hasta el absurdo de llegar al agotamiento y lesionar lo que siempre debiste cuidar, pero que nunca te lo advirtió nadie. Entrenas hasta odiar imponerte cualquier entrenamiento mientras continuas entrenando. Entrenas hasta sentirte dueño de cada uno de tus movimientos, de cada pulsación y cada respiración, siempre a mitad de camino a ese equilibrio que no llegará jamás. Entrenas hasta que el único rival es tu reflejo cuando avanzas de espaldas al sol.

Viajas por oficio, y aprendes a ser el extraño que fue enviado porque sabe lo que ignoran los nativos. Viajas porque confían en que podrás hacerte similar a los lugareños y desde ahí establecer lo que no estaba previsto. Viajas porque en donde estabas no había sitio sino para lo de siempre todos los días, porque hay algo en el ticket que con cariño y desprecio sujetan tus dedos. Viajas porque puedes mirar a los ojos del que te pide el pasaporte y leer su vida entera, aunque te doble en edad, sin que él tenga posibilidades de hacer lo mismo.

Escuchas por impulso, midiendo la emoción alegre o rencorosa de quien cierra la puerta de un auto, la rabia el desgano o la fe en el roce del cuchillo con el tenedor cuando alguien cercena las verduras de su ensalada. Escuchas, veinte años después, el silencio de tu maestra de escuela antes de dormir, el griterío en el patio de recreo, y tu propio llanto desde la alta lejanía del castigado. Escuchas la mudez del que no habla porque se acostumbró a no tener con quién hablar. Escuchas el crepitar de los carbones relajando los modos del asador que nunca finge.

Transcurres la noche por estigma entre maldito y bendito, como si nada te faltara y nada te bastase, como si sin nadie estuviesen todos, o tan sólo los escogidos por tu querencia a prueba de juicios. Transcurres la noche como buscando llegar a la madrugada para decirle con los ojos abiertos cómo se soporta el día con los ojos entrecerrados, en una suerte de batalla que te tensa las espaldas no decirla, y que sabes es el precio de compartirla. Transcurres la noche con las manos abiertas a lo que no llega, por si ocurra la siembra, ese gesto genial, desconocido.

Y persistes, es así que persistes, con la altanería de un faro que ni busca ni se expone, tan sólo estando ahí, recibiendo la bravura del oleaje de silencios por abajo y la luminosa sordidez por arriba. Persistes en tu musculatura emocional, flexible e inquebrantable en su propio código de espiral que escupe como engulle. Persistes en tu condición de incondicional porque cuando ya nada queda levantas un nombre y lo vuelves tu aliento. Persistes porque siempre te queda otra, pero la que quieres es la que tendrás. Porque el vacío como el lleno no te acaban de poblar el pulso.

viernes, 20 de junio de 2014

No matter the cost




It could not dry up
The spring that never existed
And although all form has a limit
Perhaps in this end
Yours will not survive the others.

Because here I am inhaling your complicated notion
My gills filled with salt
And each stretch of the way
Roars its existence furiously
Making of its way a mirror of the horizon

As if we did not give enough thought
Season by season
When the previous moment had already arrived
After which, with the eyes wide opened
Each one of us comes to an end closing doors

Accepting the twilight and the dawns
As one who accepts the hours of his life
Without ever considering their origin or end
In this way avoiding wandering about the other
Preventing the growth of all roots of empathy.

So then, beyond any regret
Of all determination or predetermination
Crossing hurdles without perceptible effort
Forcing the heart not to express
Controlling the mind not to rebelled

A plan is designed for the possibility of breathing
For one or two more minutes, for a day, for centuries
Destroying from inside the dimension of height
Twisting the course to the vision never lost
That tired of thinking of others in their own image.

More than conflict and much more than innocence
In a mountainous and snowy location
Of those who fear the consequences
With a gash opened by their own hand
They let run the internal river of affection

That otherwise they could be transformed
Before reaching the sea that all rivers search for
And this time extends the necessary delay
That implies its sliding in an almost inconceivable limbo
From which it will separate when it understands the laws.

Although only to the pressure point
Of that infinite vitality that seeks access
The excessive harvest and protective cloak of force
With the order that covers those who discover
Not intentionally by with the stubbornness of their intent

They do not stop compelling the surrender to obsession
From time to time demanding accompaniment
Those steps that perhaps are still less firm
But that involve the feasibility of a skill
That for definite assessment they already shine their unity

And in that way they can arrive at night
Caring without dragging the true weight of the day
That finds its measure in the dimension
In the expansion of happiness
And the depth of sadness

These are born in the same instant
In which the feeling is confirmed
Then having for that reason to acknowledge
The supreme calculation where everything have been foreseen
From whence the first clear condition of sincerity came.

And to tell what exists
An old man with a blackened soul
Who among ashes also searches
By means of easy and complicated actions
To be freed of the torment of his days

As the victim of circumstances exists
And the innate winner of the laws
Each one complying with the visionary role
One with the walls in front of him
The other with the bricks turning to dust in the air,

That brothers and sisters
Out of the possibility of the environment of their unions
Recreate in their way the idea of the smoke
According to their skin and stomach
And their condition of legal heirs



Or of their legitimate children that for one reason or another
Learned from their ancestors the costly art of despising
All that does not coincide in content and form
With which they have engraved as a sign in the depth
Of each one of their exaltations for each one of them foreseen

That in the repeated images always ends
For not finding any return
Because the secret does not dwell in the act
Or in the continuous repetition of them
But in what stays and in what is created later

So that the same word
The same prayer and the same book
In the face of the recipient can omit variety
As if they did not stand for what was expressed
But in the final intentions of the one who receives it

And complying then with simplicity
To the purpose of the clay
Realizing the hidden power
Of something fixed that can change
Without contradictions but with all the possible inclusions.

And then the arduous
Will become a celebration
And in the middle of the night
Over the guests a look will pass
Making looking back possible but not necessary

Because what is occurring is enough
Because for what is coming there is no fear
Because although the possibility of pain
Did not yet totally vanished?
Its full conception is already justified completely

To give the measure of impermanence
Of which although dying of desires
Could not escape
Because there is no escape for precision of the present
Where water, earth and air are without murmuring

They give convergence to the fire
Like a feather gives space to another
Until it forms a wing that is conscious of the other
It deploys versatility and is maintained by the pressure
With the absolute as destiny no matter the costs.

jueves, 19 de junio de 2014

We either know it or not




Then after they remained fatigued
The dialogues and the words they wanted to explain
And for the unfinished years that you could cross
Facing difficult battles during the day
And once the night comes you surrender to rest

Where you learned to imagine freely
In the space where what not wanted could occur
You only had to wake suddenly
And in recognizing familiar objects
Recall stealthily the fleeing sleep

Some sounds could have returned
That having been manifested in a convergence
They could not even silence in a given time
Or linger in the tiny space of earth
And they remained there, at the mercy of the air knowing them.

It is known that traces…
But also new signs
A precision that although glimpsed
Still did not reach the dimension taken
Deepening the marks of each step in which it expressed.

Having understood some displacements,
The dramatic art for which in a resolute development
A certainty accepted includes the freedom of a doubt
In a spiral playing at mathematical limits
In which only once deprivation is understood

Starting to ponder a state acquired
Not so much passing from one extreme to another
Or weakening forces for whatever reason
But to meditate stroke by stroke
The last intention of each proposed or accepted struggle

The description beyond its fair or unfair expression
Fits according to the possibilities to a fatal puzzle
That started imposing an almost absolute denial
Letting only the imagination as a purpose in a groove
For which he would have to accept to understand

Examining your way in life
In small but intense segments
In such a way that the simple becomes confused
And the confusion is complied of simplicity
When finally to isolate is not the same as to separate.

The drop sweating the glass
The one who washes the eyes in the morning
The one starting the sweet run of the rain
The one who alone becomes the first daring to plunge in the sea
And the one who searches for its mate to become fuller

Details as small crystal pieces
So that the grace of someone bearing them
Is not based in a proud exhibition
But in the capacity of humility
To shine still more effortlessly radiating translucence.

Behead the intention of recognition
Dismissing the exhalation of such an intention
At the same side of a round table – allowing the center-
And not from the other extreme as generally occurs
When somebody leads by ignoring how to guide.

Farther and with more effort
With more victims and more results
With more sacrifices and more rewards
With more time and more space
For courage of a life that pretends to be great.

As he can and knows
Squeezing sorrows in his heart
Forming smiles from sights
Forgetting without wanting any maps
That refers to climbs and leaps to give

It also measures the pulse
Of the scream still present
Of distant crimes
Where the body has been
For having being faithful.

A known time for sighs
Where somebody wanted to include
Much more that he can do
Because forgiveness also passes
The power to demand something more

Until you reach expectations but not as foreseen
That day is not opposed to the night
In a shape in which consciousness rests
Of one who is laboring with a hidden smile
Because behind the eyes there is more visualized than seen

No plans exist that are not secret
Since nothing subsist without implicating the absolute
As nothing that has its place stops existing
In the quiet clamor of one who inclines his head
To receive the love that will be rewarded.

Here or there

We either know it or not
Where those who do not need evidence laugh
When to lose a lot was necessary
To gain the probability of an instant

In which everything is all right
In the future that will really be another day
In which finally an end will not exist
Nor the trace of having persisted
Only the air on the edge of the mystery of fire.