Taken by the lighthouses of the forest

What sound does the horizon bring,
What sound?
A so distant and mine tam tam burns,
Within me a yearning lights up,
A nightly stampede which echoes from the floor
And smells like damask and quebrachales.

What call strip the leaves from the mount,
What call?
It seems a restless, weightless, coveted howl
And, in my ears, a fist of invulnerable rivers
Starts its steady and millennial trot...
Touching, fondling the fertile river bed,
I have a feeling for umbra, plum, and walnut trees.

What lights shine from the thickness,
What lights?
In my gasping retina
A constellation of beasts and fireflies glow,
And while I decipher their dumb musical code
—splendid, immemorial— the beauty of owls
(Lighthouses of the forest) glimmers,
So are their eyes: paths of mud and light
Going through the rainfall of oblivion,
They show me the destiny, and I get it,
I accept it, I get moving,
I follow the tack...

Juan Ramón Ortiz Galeano writes from Argentina. Born in 1975, he has been awarded the "Igriega" prize of short stories in 2002, and he has been finalist in the "El Arte de Escribir" award of 2009.

Arts and expression + Poetry