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I want to sleep and lean over
without moving toward the darkness.
But the mind is a path
that pierces every wall.

The infant sun is rising.
I hear the trot of a horse.
Spans of a bridge open.
Not wanting to seek I find.

The horse has left me
going  its way, so alien.
I don't listen. The noise unleashed
by the light grazes me.

Sleep, rest, toil.
Horse, car, bell.
Living is not dreaming. What if
I invent my window.

Now the horse is thought.
It trots inside me and trots outside.
The window gives a breath
of a real invasion.


Jorge Guillén
Translated by Cola Franzen

subir   poema aleatorio   Clamor (1957-1963)   siguiente / next   anterior / previous
Segunda serie. Clamor. Tiempo de historia
1. Maremágnum. II
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