Daltónica
(A Roque Dalton)
Pulgarcito de poeta
que se escapa y me cosquilla,
tan alegre, tan sin silla,
tan de amores torrenciales,
tan sin fin.
Alegría de una tierra
que se quita las fronteras,
se desnuda las caderas,
las volcánicas centrales
de una luz.
Yo lo vi,
yo lo vi, yo lo vi, yo lo vi.
El año treinta y dos
él no vivía y yo lo vi
contando sus historias
de futuro, iba entre mil.
Yo lo vi, yo lo vi, yo lo vi.
Pobrecitos los poetas,
bendiciones son daltones,
donde hay huesos ven marrones
territorios prometidos
como un sol.
Tan bracito su poesía,
se levanta en los sensuales
laberintos marsupiales
y reparte polen rojo,
se abre en flor.
Yo lo vi,
yo lo vi, yo lo vi, yo lo vi.
Era el año dos mil,
ya él no vivía y yo lo vi.
La muerte equivocada lo llevó
y él anda aquí;
y yo lo vi, yo lo vi, yo lo vi.
Pulgarcito de poeta
que se escapa y me cosquilla,
tan alegre, tan sin silla,
tan de amores torrenciales,
tan sin fin.
Crece armado de esperanza,
desentierra lo perdido,
le hace un hijo de sonido
al silencio de ese pueblo
que es maestro de sus sueños.
Que se escapa y nos cosquilla,
tan sin miedo, tan sin silla,
tan amado, tan armado,
tan de todos, Salvador.
Color Blind
(To Roque Dalton)
Thumbelina of a poet
who escapes and tickles me,
so joyful, so without a chair,
so full of torrential loves,
so endless.
Joy of a land
that removes its borders,
undresses its hips,
the volcanic central
of a light.
I saw him,
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
In the year thirty-two
he wasn't alive and I saw him
telling his stories
of the future, he was among thousands.
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
Poor poets,
blessings are Daltons,
where there are bones, they see brown,
promised territories
like a sun.
So little arm his poetry,
rises in the sensual
marsupial labyrinths
and distributes red pollen,
blooms.
I saw him,
I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
It was the year two thousand,
he wasn't alive and I saw him.
The mistaken death took him
and he walks here;
and I saw him, I saw him, I saw him.
Thumbelina of a poet
who escapes and tickles me,
so joyful, so without a chair,
so full of torrential loves,
so endless.
Grows armed with hope,
digs up what was lost,
makes a sound child
to the silence of that town
that is master of his dreams.
Who escapes and tickles us,
so fearless, so without a chair,
so loved, so armed,
so of everyone, Salvador.