Pura López-Colomé
Translated by Jason Stumpf

In Praise of Death

1
What intimate prayer
between birds and air.
They congregate on the water,
barely touching the surface:
they snatch bread,
hurt themselves or intently watch
the inhabitant of other kingdoms.

2
From the wharf,
midpoint of my life,
I saw the ray born, open itself into a triangle,
then close,
with greater brightness every time,
like a star over luminous depths.
A duck crossed that line
without changing anything.

3
It's not my eye
that opens and closes
this scene.

4
Upon returning to the coast,
the rooster's song
cuts through me.

That day, waking, I felt death near: a mute siren, without a mouth at the outset of youth, of spring, of a feminine flower. When touched, the petals shut with the slam of an iron door. Someone whispered in my ear: "Offer your pain to God." It was a voice that spoke through flesh. I paid numb attention to it, thinking of the sanctity of he who ignores all. With eyes shut, I saw my soul, its little spots cruelties toward love. When the door sealed my ears, I had already forgotten that offering. My pardon, then, lasted but one phrase, and slowly fell into the well. Today, before a triangle of light on the waters, I knew myself within the cipher, parts of prints between the waves.

Rooster's song
distant mourning.