by Víctor Terán
Day and night, your name.
In the morning, the afternoon, at dusk
only your name spins
through my head
like a man straight-jacketed
for having lost his mind;
only your name slips
over my tongue
like a fish between the hands
of a fisherman.
I lift a paper, your name.
I put something away, your name.
There is nowhere I go
that I do not have the thorn of your name
nailed to the tip of my finger
and no matter where I go,
the memory of your face silently bites
the leg of my existence.
Is is time for Lent
and May's festival is near.
Perhaps the day is fed up
with chasing the night.
Maybe one day I'll wake up
to the scandal of my death;
despite it all I'll have an ocean of sighs
in my soul, to whisper your name;
I'll undoubtedly have one last breath
capable of filling a basket with winged ants
that will proclaim the love I have,
like the commotion that announces
The literal translation of this poem was made by David Shook
The final translated version of the poem is by David Shook
First published in World Literature Today
© Poetry Translation Centre 2004-2014