Antonio Mosquera

Igor Barreto

AHORA que olvidé

el arte de utilizar la navaja

quisiera recordar

tres caballos

que también perdí:

Uno alazano

llamado Bronco,

juntos visitamos

una finca

al final

de un camino de tierra

que cruzaba una autopista

con bordes de paja de agua

y un basural

donde había garzas

y árboles irreales:

era un caballo de tres años.

Luego tuve a Farol

y a Famoso.

Mis caballos no están en venta.

Farol

murió de una cornada

con relincho grave.

Y a Famoso

el miedo

le afilaba las orejas

y levantaba la cabeza

dando dos pasos atrás.

De ellos aprendí

que todas las heridas no son iguales.

Los caballos

huelen a pasto macerado,

al sudor

de otros animales,

a muchas hojas estrujadas

contra la palma de la mano

y pequeños valles

entre las dunas rojizas

del atardecer.

 

Antonio Mosquera

Translated by Rowena Hill

NOW I've forgotten

the art of using the knife

I would like to remember

three horses

that I also lost:

a chestnut

called Bronco,

together we visited

a ranch

at the end

of a dirt road

that crossed a highway

with water weed verges

and a rubbish dump

where there were herons

and unreal trees.

The horse was three years old.

Then I had Farol

and Famoso.

My horses are not for sale.

Farol

died when he was gored

with a deep neigh.

Famoso

pricked his ears

for fear

and he would lift his head

taking two steps backwards.

From them I learnt

that not all wounds are the same.

Horses

smell of soaked grass,

of the sweat

of other animals,

of many leaves crushed

against the palm of the hand

and of small valleys

among the reddish dunes

of sunset.

 

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