Poems by Lina Zerón / Traduction to english María Vargas



Poems by  Lina Zerón


Traduction to english María Vargas





Blessed are the women who protect the fruit of their womb

assuming the parable of their beauty under an apron;

those who clean their faces with the cloth of routine

and learn to raise their voices, although their voices is all they have left.


Blessed are the women who drag the cross of impurity

drenching their future with tears of absence,

who find purification in the water of any river

and weave scattered loves in the flow of time.


Blessed are the women who fall in love,

the sorcerers of the night,

the ones who share the fire of the body’s marriage

in the consecration of the skin.


Blessed are the ones who scream what the heart professes,

the ones who listen and the ones who make themselves heard,

also, those who silence their true passion

surviving like mournful, stagnant water.


Blessed are the women who face the empty nest

reliving every night the exodus since its origin.


Blessed are the ones who are storms, rivers bursting their banks;

who are labeled crazy, trouble-makers,

liberated, feminists,

able to wreck the wind with a gaze.


Blessed are the females with fractures and fragments

Blessed are all of us. Matrix of the universe.






In this city of magazines, labels, and fashions,

let’s throw in the garbage the corsets that hide the stomach,

the under-wire brass with double padding

to push up the drooping fruits.

The violating panties with dental floss backs,

the uncomfortable sexy nightgowns.


Let’s destroy all that hides, deforms or betrays.

Let’s stop trying to be like little dolls on the shelves of fine stores.

To hell with the stylized legs of Julia Roberts,

with the mountainous wax breasts of Pamela

or the false eyelashes of soap opera stars,

the anti-wrinkle creams,




To hell with all types of jewelry that binds us

specially, engagement rings,

lockets with antique pictures,

medallions with the initials of proper names.


Death to all that implies property of another,

the insecurity of being alone,

the fear of being ourselves.






I sleep in the undulation of your body.

Kissing you I awake and kissing you I sleep.

I dream about the naked sea of your skin.

Naked I sleep to have you, naked, in me.


I dress you with the heat of my lips

and the warmth of my mouth undresses you.

My eyes shine like the wind

that sustains the birds in the air

which today fall down because of you.


With the freshness of the forest you bite my lips,

by the banks of a river you refresh my heat,

your fire cultivates gardenias on my thighs

and, like a savage, I offer you my breasts

to satisfy your dreams in them.


In your sword of iron, I live,

and like a bewitched butterfly,


toward the fire I flutter.


Your hands unveil the heat of my body,

I feel the fingers of your thunderous tongue,

my womb drenched with dew.


And then, I kiss you.

I kiss you and call you “my love”

with the hesitant voice of my breast.



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