Quizá / Luis Rodríguez

Quizá cuando se hayan perdido las historias y el sueño sea un río desecado, y lo que hace cantar a la carne sea una oración largamente concluida, podremos encontrar nuestros nombres verdaderos;

Quizá cuando la rotación terrestre se detenga, cuando la luna se haya marchitado y los rayos del sol reduzcan este suelo malgastado a cenizas, podremos revelar nuestro ojo interno;

Quizá cuando los venenos que alguna vez fueran nuestro sostén, y la radiación que alguna vez nos diera luz, acojan nuestras hambres sin tregua y una permanente oscuridad, podremos conocer lo que en verdad nos alimenta y guía;

Quizá después de haber creado tantas fronteras, tantos muros, y de que hayamos hecho aparecer aún más leyes para tener aún más forajidos, podremos darnos cuenta de que somos nosotros los que nos hemos vuelto ilegales, que nuestros espíritus son los inmigrados;

Quizá cuando los padres, cortos de entendederas, pierdan los últimos lazos con que atan a sus hijos, entenderán finalmente que su solo propósito es traer niños amados, saludables y diestros a este mundo; volver a sembrar y rehacer el universo, uno cada vez mejor y más sagrado;

Quizá cuando terminen finalmente las guerras en nombre de incontables Dioses que se parecen a quienes los evocan y que actúan como ellos, podremos darnos cuenta de que Dios es el viento innombrable y sutil que acaricia nuestras mejillas, la lluvia que cae sobre todos nosotros y el aire mismo que entra en nuestros pulmones, sangre y cerebro para que podamos invocar al Dios que se nos venga en gana;

Quizá cuando no haya más libros de texto, historias escritas y artículos científicos, entenderemos que la Naturaleza, y nuestras propias naturalezas, son la fuente de todo conocimiento, toda lengua y todas las historias, y que siempre seremos capaces de reescribirlas, imaginarlas de nuevo y volver a tejerlas en el mundo;

Quizá cuando el amor se convierta en las ascuas de lo que odiamos, en el residuo de lo que destruimos, sabremos que el amor es la corriente que fluye a través de cada uno de nosotros, el agua que ansiamos beber en los desiertos de nuestros días, el océano del que todas nuestras lágrimas, llenas de sal y deseos no cumplidos, surgen y fluyen.

Versión de Hernán Bravo Varela

Perhaps

Perhaps when the stories are lost and the dream is a dry river and what makes the flesh sing is a long-gone prayer, we may find our true names;

Perhaps when the earth’s rotation stops, when the moon has wilted, and the sun’s rays scorch down this squandered ground, we may uncover our inner eye;

Perhaps when the poisons that once were our sustenance and the radiation that once gave us light, now foster our insatiable hungers and an abiding darkness, we may know what really feeds and guides us;

Perhaps after we’ve created so many borders, so many walls, and conjured up even more laws to make even more lawless, we may realize it’s ourselves who’ve been made illegal, it’s our spirits we’ve alienized;

Perhaps when parents lose their final grasps on their children, they will finally grasp that their sole purpose is to bring loved, healthy, and understood children into this world—to re-seed and remake the universe, better and more holy each time;

Perhaps when the wars in the names of countless Gods that look and act like those who evoke them finally end, we may realize that God is the unnamable, unobtrusive wind that caresses our cheeks, the rain that falls on us all, and the very air that enters our lungs, our blood and brains so we can name whatever God we want;

Perhaps when all the textbooks and written histories and science papers cease, we’ll understand that nature, and our own natures, are the source of all knowledge, language and histories, and we’ll always be able to re-write them, re-imagine them, and re-weave them into the world;

Perhaps when love has become the embers of what we hate, the residue of what we’ve destroyed, we’ll know that love is the stream that flows through each and every one of us, the water we thirst for in the deserts of our days, the ocean from which all our tears, full of salt and unmet desires, surge and flow.

 

 

Versión de Hernán Bravo Varela

Perhaps

Perhaps when the stories are lost and the dream is a dry river and what makes the flesh sing is a long-gone prayer, we may find our true names;

Perhaps when the earth’s rotation stops, when the moon has wilted, and the sun’s rays scorch down this squandered ground, we may uncover our inner eye;

Perhaps when the poisons that once were our sustenance and the radiation that once gave us light, now foster our insatiable hungers and an abiding darkness, we may know what really feeds and guides us;

Perhaps after we’ve created so many borders, so many walls, and conjured up even more laws to make even more lawless, we may realize it’s ourselves who’ve been made illegal, it’s our spirits we’ve alienized;

Perhaps when parents lose their final grasps on their children, they will finally grasp that their sole purpose is to bring loved, healthy, and understood children into this world—to re-seed and remake the universe, better and more holy each time;

Perhaps when the wars in the names of countless Gods that look and act like those who evoke them finally end, we may realize that God is the unnamable, unobtrusive wind that caresses our cheeks, the rain that falls on us all, and the very air that enters our lungs, our blood and brains so we can name whatever God we want;

Perhaps when all the textbooks and written histories and science papers cease, we’ll understand that nature, and our own natures, are the source of all knowledge, language and histories, and we’ll always be able to re-write them, re-imagine them, and re-weave them into the world;

Perhaps when love has become the embers of what we hate, the residue of what we’ve destroyed, we’ll know that love is the stream that flows through each and every one of us, the water we thirst for in the deserts of our days, the ocean from which all our tears, full of salt and unmet desires, surge and flow.

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