The afternoon was coming down the street near the port
with slow, swaying, full of scent,
The old houses in the pale afternoon like this,
his ragged never more melancholy
Ni saddest walk walls,
stairs in the deep sea as a phosphorescent glow,
perhaps dead eyes that watch the evening as if remembering,
was six, a sweetness to stop unknown
sweetness and lip of the afternoon, carnal, carnal
,
the faces become soft on afternoons like this,
burn with a kind of childhood
against darkness, the steam from the dance halls.
That sweetness was like everyone to remember a woman
hugged her thighs, her head on his belly,
The Silence of the unknown
was a swell in the middle of
street faces with tender knees and bumping
Against the "New Inn", the doors, leaving color thresholds.
Until the girl appeared at the balcony of
Standing on the intimate late as its fourth with
unmade bed where all believed to have loved once
before oblivion came
Juan Gelman, Argentine poet, born in Buenos Aires in 1930. Enjoy it on your website Log
My portrait of Gelman :
Jorge Bonaldi handed me the first book I read Gelman, and soon to find those words stuck in heavy, Almada, perennials possessing spirits delivered to them. Your perfume, John, is so intense that always surrounds me, I passed in every stroke of mine, me. I dedicate this song to our friend Bonaldi: "To the city of Montevideo."
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