Poems by Marcela Villar M. ( U.S.A. )

 marcela villar

Poems by Marcela Villar M. ( U.S.A. )

 

 

Silent Autumns

 

I

 

It’s springtime on the other side

of the world.

Light hides in my hands

when I look at them;

there are shadows of rainy seasons

arriving,

they bring leaves, that although dry,

stare.

 

II

 

There are fractures,

roots speaking,

changing seasons

with time.

 

III

 

The world spins inside

us,

We are a Universe in our own wings.

And I feel this autumn’s leaves

fall with me,

even though spring-times

begin in other latitudes

whispering flowers and fields.

 

IV

 

The grounds are prepared,

opening their trenches with new

seeds,

speaking of other times

when love embraced them;

they are ready for my verses.

They want to be forests.

 

V

 

In my hands I hold golden

leaves,

silent autumns.

Quiet

 

 

Infertile land,

empty of territories,

as an orb of inert skin,

worn-out of words

never said.

 

In sterile streets

your vain voices proceed,

now senseless,

now without echoes that repeat

caresses given at other

times.

 

They depart motionless,

move without speaking,

remain, quiet.

 

 

 

Fragile

 

The verses fall,

from quiet branches

in golden autumns,

but it’s not my time.

They fall deeply.

Leafless.

 

Their descent is felt

from distances

from which my eyes

close over the earth.

 

That fragility of leaf

and

planet

that envelopes poetry

has spoken from the interior

of the seasons,

but only the cold responds

with silences.

 

 

 

Enslaved

 

The walls speak.

They seem to get closer

and closer,

as damned prisons where Poets

sing desolate songs deprived of voice.

 

Who cuts out the meter from their verses?

Who chains the freedom of verses that fly

from peaks that protect nests now empty?

 

Schizophrenic fears gather in the boulevards

of extinct minds,

meanwhile miserable dictators lock them up

in emaciated catacombs.

Their tortured bodies hang

from crosses with no kingdoms.

There is no resurrection in such agony,

Poetry dies without a Messiah.

 

Impossible anguish,

Lyrical poetry weeps.

Hypocritical muses dressed as Magdalena weep

while they hide behind red glass windows stained

with the holy blood of Poets.

 

Dark caverns

roar with millennial fire;

there is no peace in the mouth.

The books burn the hands

that touch secrets and mysteries,

metaphor is dressed as the bride,

white she goes up to an altar of sacrifice.

The chains of slavery lament;

mourn tears of hopelessness,

but Poets will never die.

Only freedom

will make them live.

 

 

LITERARY MAGAZINE ATUNIS NR.3 – 4 , MAY 2016
A PUBLICATION OF POETICAL GALAXY  “ ATUNIS”

 

 

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