Oswaldo Guayasamín (1919 – 1999)

Blas de Otero (c.1950)

Walking

For some time now there have been two worlds or ways
for man to walk, behind history or catching up with it:
propping up crippled ideas, laying down new foundations
on which to set life up.

And I saw the world as a sea churning with people, hanging
on to one another as they went down; and the world just
risen among broken tombs and inscriptions that lied.

I went out to the countryside and saw the sun drinking the
blood of millions of people who had been sacrificed brutally;
and I followed the road I found crowded with footsteps that
moved along calmly, sure of what was ahead of them.



Seven

My house, unfortunately, is a house,
a sock hanging from a line,
there I've written the saddest books,
and turned my face toward life, thank god.
This house, my friend, this house
is always sitting there, it just sits,
and in summer it gets chilly, and hot in winter,
(I suppose you believe that),
and I have come back, comrade, for a few days
to pick up my books, my records, my contracts
and I found my mother in the hall
and my sister in the living room
and myself reading in a corner,
friend, you have to understand, long days have gone by
and slow nights, comrade, since then.
What can I do, when I've seen the world from above
and even the clouds from above,
and I walked once around a small boy
in Pinar del Rio,
and he was so different
from Spanish children or the wiseguys of Paris,
something has been going on
in certain spots on this planet,
friend,
unfortunately, comrade, my house is still the same,
its not the same,
it contains more records, my friend,
and more peace and quiet, comrade,
and more love spoken in whispers, and it's seven now.


translated from the Spanish by Hardie St. Martin