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Original lyrics
Ayotzinapa
Para Elena Poniatowska
Al recorrerse las nubes, el sol sacaba luz a las piedras,
irisaba todo de colores, se bebía el agua de la tierra,
jugaba con el aire dándole brillo a las hojas con que jugaba el aire.
Si yo escuchaba solamente el silencio
era porque aún no estaba acostumbrado al silencio;
tal vez porque mi cabeza venía llena de ruidos y de voces.
De voces, sí.
Y aquí, donde el aire era escaso, se oían mejor.
A centenares de metros, encima de todas las nubes,
más allá de todo.
En la destiladera las gotas caen una tras otra.
Uno oye, salida de la piedra, el agua clara caer sobre el cántaro.
Uno oye.
Ecos encerrados en el hueco de las paredes
o debajo de las piedras.
Sientes que te van pisando los pasos.
Oyes crujidos.
Oía de vez en cuando el sonido de las palabras.
Las palabras que había oído hasta entonces no tenían ningún sonido,
no sonaban.
Se sentían, pero sin sonido, como las que se oyen durante los sueños.
Como que se van las voces.
Como que se pierde su ruido.
Como que se ahogan.
Ya nadie dice nada.
¿No me oyes?
Y es que no había aire;
Sólo la noche entorpecida, y quieta.
No había aire.
Tuve que sorber el mismo aire que salía de mi boca,
deteniéndolo con las manos antes de que se fuera.
Se hizo tan delgado que se filtró entre mis dedos para siempre.
¡No oigo lo que estás diciendo!
¿O no estás diciendo nada?
¿Qué es lo que dices?
Los vientos siguieron soplando todos esos días.
La lluvia se había ido; pero el viento se quedó.
De noche gemía, gemía largamente.
Pabellones de nubes pasaban en silencio por el cielo
como si caminaran rozando la tierra.
Trago saliva espumosa;
mastico terrones plagados de gusanos que se anudan en la garganta
y raspan la pared del paladar.
Mi boca se hunde,
retorciéndose en muecas,
perforada por los dientes que la taladran y devoran.
La nariz se reblandece.
La gelatina de los ojos se derrite.
Los cabellos arden en una sola llamarada.
Tengo memoria de haber visto algo así como nubes espumosas
haciendo remolino sobre mi cabeza
y luego enjuagarme con aquella espuma
y perderme en su nublazón.
Fue lo último que vi.
- Elena Poniatowska:
A French-born Mexican journalist and author, specializing in works on social and political issues focused on those considered to be disenfranchised especially women and the poor.
Submitted by 
maluca on 2020-12-31
maluca on 2020-12-31Translation
Ayotzinapa*
For Elena Poniatowska1
As the clouds passed by, the sun brought light to the rocks,
it iridesced everything in colors, drank water from the earth,
played with the air, giving sparkle to the leaves with which the air played.
If I listened only to the silence,
it was because I was still not accustomed to the silence;
perhaps because my head was filled with the noises and the voices.
The voices, yes.
And here, where the air is scarce, they were better heard.
At hundreds of meters, above all the clouds,
beyond everything.
In the distillery, the drops fall one after another.
One hears, pouring out of the rock, clear water falling onto the pitcher.
One hears.
Echoes contained in the hollow of the walls
or underneath the rocks.
You feel like the footsteps are stepping on you.
You hear creaks.
Now and then I would hear the sound of their words.
The words that I had heard until then had no sound,
they were not sounding.
They were felt, but without sound, like the ones that are heard during dreams.
It's like the voices go away.
It's like their noise is lost.
It's like they suffocate.
Nobody says anything anymore.
Don't you hear me?
And it's just that there was no air;
Only the dull night, and still.
There was no air.
I had to inhale the same air that came out of my mouth,
holding it with my hands before it left.
It became so thin that it seeped out between my fingers forever.
I can't hear what you're saying,
Or are you not saying anything!?
What is it you're saying?
The winds kept blowing all of those days.
The rain had gone; but the wind remained.
At night it wailed, it wailed for a long time.
Pavilions of clouds passed by in silence through the sky
as if they walked skimming the earth.
I swallow foamy saliva;
I chew clods of earth full of worms that get knotted in my throat
and scrape the wall of my palate.
My mouth sunken in,
pierced by the teeth that bores and devours it.
The nose becomes softened.
The gelatin in the eyes melts.
The hair burns in a single flare.
I have a memory of having seen something like foamy clouds
whirling above my head
and then rinsing myself off with that foam
and losing myself in its cloudiness.
It was the last thing I saw.
- 1. Elena Poniatowskais, a French-born Mexican journalist and author.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elena_Poniatowska
Freda✕
Collections with "Ayotzinapa"
| 1. | Songs about the Ayotzinapa / Tlatelolco massacres (Mexico) |
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About translator
https://www.imex-revista.com/en/ayotzinapa-poema-de-jacobo-sefami/