Espacio
Todo se ha vuelto poesía
Y la poesía es forma
Trato de buscar una explicación
Susurras al oido: "aquí estoy"
Ahora la voz es forma
Miro tus ojos, estoy ahí
No estoy atrapado, soy libre
Pero solo existo en ti
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Small Hours by Wislawa Szymborska
I am still asleep,
while certain facts are already taking place.
The window is whitening,
the darkness graying,
the room is struggling out of the unclear space;
in it seek support the wobbly, pale streaks of light.
One by one, unhurriedly,
as befits a ceremony,
dawn the surfaces of walls and ceiling;
the shapes separate
one from another;
the left side leaves the right.
Spaces between objects grow light:
the first glimmers chirp
on the drinking glass, on the door-knob.
What was moved yesterday,
what fell to the floor,
what fits inside frames
no longer merely seems, but exists entire.
Only the particulars are yet to enter
the field of vision.
But attention, attention, attention!
Much indicates that the colors are returning,
and even the smallest thing will reclaim its own,
complete with its shadow's shade.
This puzzles me less frequently than it should.
Most often, I awake as a late witness,
after the miracle is accomplished,
the day established,
and the dawning expertly turned into the morning.
Ulises Castellanos
Strobist
Up... Up... Up... !!!