by Víctor Terán
The dust dances in the middle of the path.
The leafy trees compete to make the most elegant curtsies.
My heart stretched across the bed, waiting for you. Quiet eyes,
the air tangles your hair, quiet, the pigs make known
that they attack the boy squatting to do his business.
And you, what would you be doing in this instant.
Do you, by chance, know what it is to wait for a woman
who comes to touch
the twenty waiting years of a man?
The dust dances in the eclipse of my eyes.
A chestnut fizzes through the paths of my blood.
Perverse woman, where the hell are you, what the hell are you doing.
I've already counted each of the sun's fingers,
the wind's gust quit exciting the street, silenced by fatigue.
It is twilight, the sky is filled with shadows,
in my hands it lies dying,
the turtledove that dreamed of cooing you to sleep.
The literal translation of this poem was made by David Shook
The final translated version of the poem is by David Shook
This translation was first published in Hayden's Ferry Review
© Poetry Translation Centre 2004-2014