Missings
(Mario Benedetti)
They are in somewhere place,
bewildered, deaf,
searching for him self, searching for us
blocked for the signs and the doubts
contemplating the fences of the squares
the doorbells of the doors
the old rooftops
ordering their dreams,
their forgetfulness
perhaps convalescing from their private death
nobody has explained to them with certainty
if they already left or not, if they are banners or tremors,
survivors or responses
they sees passing trees and birds,
and ignore to which shadow they belong
when they began to disappear,
three, five, seven ceremonies ago,
to disappear how without blood,
how without a face
and without reason
they saw through the window of their absence
what was left behind, that scaffolding
of embraces to the sky and smoke
when they began to disappear
like the oasis in mirages,
to disappear without last words,
They had in their hands the little pieces
of things they wanted.
They are in somewhere place,
cloud or grave,
They are in somewhere place,
I'm sure,
there In the south of the soul,
it's possible they've lost their compass,
and today they wander around asking, asking,
where the hell is the good true love,
because come from the hate.
Desaparecidos
(Mario Benedetti)
Están en algún sitio / concertados
desconcertados / sordos
buscándose / buscándonos
bloqueados por los signos y las dudas
contemplando las verjas de las plazas
los timbres de las puertas / las viejas azoteas
ordenando sus sueños sus olvidos
quizá convalecientes de su muerte privada
nadie les ha explicado con certeza
si ya se fueron o si no
si son pancartas o temblores
sobrevivientes o responsos
ven pasar árboles y pájaros
e ignoran a qué sombra pertenecen
cuando empezaron a desaparecer
hace tres cinco siete ceremonias
a desaparecer como sin sangre
como sin rostro y sin motivo
vieron por la ventana de su ausencia
lo que quedaba atrás / ese andamiaje
de abrazos cielo y humo
cuando empezaron a desaparecer
como el oasis en los espejismos
a desaparecer sin últimas palabras
tenían en sus manos los trocitos
de cosas que querían
están en algún sitio / nube o tumba
están en algún sitio / estoy seguro
allá en el sur del alma
es posible que hayan extraviado la brújula
y hoy vaguen preguntando preguntando
dónde carajo queda el buen amor
porque vienen del odio
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Author:
Vogelfrei (
Offline) - Published: September 17th, 2025 00:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments3
Thank you for your presentation of these poems in English and Spanish reading both I get different perspectives and feels being able to compare as opposed to just take the translated version as the way it is meant. A lovely poem very poetic in its images and lines it talks to my soul. Nicely done my friend
thanks dear friend i too can feel you words.
Most welcome
This is haunting, Vogelfrei…absence rendered in rooftops, ceremonies, fragments, and wandering souls. A devastatingly beautiful piece. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
the absence that fells the mothers argentinian who are searching for hers sons, daugthers and grandchildren kidnapedd for the last dictatorship. thanks for your words and fellings.
This poem capture the eerie feeling of people vanishing, the uncertainty of their fate, and the emotional weight of memory and longing. Nicely written.
all they has been kidnappedd for the last dictatorship in my country argentina, thanks for yours words.
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