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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