Clara Lecuona Varela (Cuba)

Clara Lecuona Varela (Cuba)
(Santa Clara, Cuba, 1971)
Poet and narrator
He studied Physics-Astronomy at the University of Pedagogical Sciences.
He has 14 published books of poetry and short story. His texts are included in about thirty anthologies. Her books Walls and other stories of the end of the world, The Fairies Wear boots, The wonderful Travels of Globito, Woman in the Rain and The Man with the Traffic light, are available on Amazon.
Part of his work is registered in the Global Poetry Library (Spain).
It is also included in the University Program of the Academy of Fine Arts, University of Guadalajara. Mexico.
President in Cuba of the International Committee of Poetap (headquarters in Spain).
Vice-President of the International Foundation of Poetry. The Netherlands and its representative in Cuba.
Coordinator and Representative of the cultural Collective: Poetic Atelier. Argentina.
He has obtained various awards and recognitions, inside and outside his country. He has collaborated on the radio inside and outside Cuba. His poems have been translated into Italian, Bulgarian, Russian, Dutch, English, French and German.
Member of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba and honorary member of the Association of Writers of Argentina.
Declaration of Principles
I have lived many lives
and in each of them I have been happy.
What does not bail me from being wrong
and still insist.
Temptations are beads,
symbology of what I repeatedly was at some point.
In the end I have only kept one flower,
a small flower that shines
when the stars open in the sky.
I said it already:
the tiny becomes transcendent.
I have declared my freedom to be free,
I guard my memory in the roots,
in the green and petal light colors.
I look up at the sky and it bubbles,
perhaps I am also a bubble
and I give life to everything that comforts and saves me.
In the end nothing will remain
but that flower, on which I will end the road.
To die standing up.
Letters of no return
My dad used to send postcards with dolls,
on the back,
I was the cutest little girl in the world.
From that other world,
from where my father sent me
so many photos in the snow.
Throwing breadcrumbs at the swans.
I think, then he wanted me to go too, to see the snow
and that sky
as blue as my sky.
Like the eyes of my father
in beautiful Germany
Only sadder.
Of the remote hope
“To my mother Clara Varela Padrón.
My best friend”
¿What minute will you stop to know
if we’re still alive?
¿What an apocalyptic trance the choice
will be again between living or burning out?
Somehow we already learned the planet
and his parables.
Maybe love doesn’t leave.
He’s not coming back.
Although being is an unpredictable word.
No one will give us the map.
No one the magic key to walk
forward and back time.
At the limit of what is possible, a woman disappears.
Promise a ladder,
So that the desire to be
don’t go numb.
And someday this poem will drop by a drop.

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