[O noso nome é]
Oriana Méndez
O noso nome é
corpos para a caza, así nos chaman
Nada máis que alimento transitando
un bosque caducifolio
entregados ao vento
digo desviarnos e agardar o termo
da guerra, un campo final de xirasois
queimados
neste lugar tiñamos o costume
de cortarlle a cabeza
ao rei, señor
Vibra a estación que nos envolve
ningunha sima hai perante
as árbores
este quizais sexa quizais
un bosque infinito
eterno na súa caída invisible
Corpos para a caza
que nos estendemos e xa perdemos
calquera noción e a vista
que fomos ofrecidos aos confíns
da néboa
un lugar con propiedade
o dominio deste couto é
para o que traballamos
el é a división para
a que traballamos
con nome e sombras encadéanse
a pel, o fondo dos invernos
a última pinga dunha peza vacúa
sobre a mesa, sobre o bosque
Termidor nos corpos que brotan
da voz sen voz cando morre agudo
dese animal
Din e sobre o mármore descansa
a carne nun coiro que bebe dela
Escriben:
produciremos no corazón
entraremos nos campos
na caída invisible do bosque
para que as sombras sosteñan o corazón
sosteñan os campos
sosteñan todas as caídas
e conserven aínda o seu trazado
estas fragas que son atlas para a
caza
Así se ditan as súplicas
no lugar equivocado:
o tempo progresa contra
as nosas mans facéndoas
irrecoñecibles aos ollos
aos ollos das nosas mans
os que levamos dentro
aos nosos propios paxaros de luz
[Our name is]
Neil Anderson
Our name is
bodies for the hunt, that’s what they call us
Nothing more than food crossing
a deciduous forest
given over to the wind
I mean getting lost and waiting for the war
to end, one last field of scorched
sunflowers
here in this place we had the custom
of cutting off the king’s
head, sir
It vibrates, the season that surrounds us
there is no abyss
among the trees
this is perhaps
an infinite wood
eternal in its invisible falling
Us. Bodies for the hunt
that stretch out and lose
all notion and the view
we were offered of where
the fog ends
a place unto itself
dominion over this preserve is
what we work for
that is the division
we strive for
with names and shadows linking
skin, the very bottom of every winter
the last drop of an ox emptied
upon the table, over the forest
Thermidor in the bodies that sprout
from a voice without a voice when it dies
croaking from this animal
They speak and upon the marble rests
flesh in a leather sack that drinks it
They write:
we will produce in the heart
we will enter the fields
enter the invisible falling of the forest
so that the shadows might hold up the heart
hold up the fields
hold up all the fallings
and so that the woods an atlas
for the hunt
might bear a trace of them
Thus supplicants speak
in the wrong place:
time progresses against
our hands making them
unrecognizable to our eyes
the eyes of our hands
the ones inside us
our very own birds of light
about the authors
