Poemas (0.227s) Poesía, prosa, comentarios, críticas - Literatura y Cultura Espanola
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agonia.net 
· Carta urgente de solidaridad para un poeta aprisionado
Artículo 
Despre Boierism: manifest si razie
Mesa redonda
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-07-26 | [Este texto, tienes que leerlo en english] | Inscrito en la biblioteca por Valeria Pintea There is a train inside this iris: You think I'm crazy, and like to say boyish and outrageous things. No, there is A train inside this iris. It's a child's finger bearded in black banners. A single window like a child's nail, A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face Of an old woman, or perhaps the boy beside her in the stuffy, Hot compartment. Her hair is silver, and sweeps Back off her forehead, onto her cold and bruised shoulders. The prairies fail along Chicago. Past the five Lakes. Into the black woods of her New York; and as I bend Close above the iris, I see the train Drive deep into the damp heart of its stem, and the gravel Of the garden path Cracks under my feet as I walk this long corridor Of elms, arched Like the ceiling of a French railway pier where a boy With pale curls holding A fresh iris is waving goodbye to a grandmother, gazing A long time Into the flower, as if he were looking some great Distance, or down an empty garden path and he believes a man Is walking toward him, working Dull shears in one hand; and now believe me: The train Is gone. The old woman is dead, and the boy. The iris curls, On its stalk, in the shade Of those elms: Where something like the icy and bitter fragrance In the wake of a woman who's just swept past you on her way Home and you remain.
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