THE STUMBLE OF THE LAMB

 

© Painting - Oswaldo Guayasamin

THE STUMBLE OF THE LAMB

 

 

Between the fog and the sidewalks, stumbling on fasting, angel's arcan

and their battle, esoteric basins of sacrifice. The purple breath

of dreams, some oblivion that passes scratching the wind.

When walking, however, the white rose of dew, touches the border

from my pupils, without tissues the carpentry presented.

But yea, martyrdom, death, though it be not upon mount Zion,

but in a small country that gets muddy when it goes to the slaughterhouse.

Each one, in his own way, reinvents the impatience of distress,

round evocation of longings, the moth in the eyewalls of a mutilated innocence 

and those vigils of clumsy pages horribly whipping

inexorable way sadness.

At the feet of Christ descends the despair of last night.

 

—Even in the sweat there is dignity when one stands upright:

life is only a second of wind or light.

 

On the shore of the forging of my memories, the petrified lamb

on the ember of sacrifice, the clichés black of time,

the calendar with its junk film, museums

for nostalgia, and taciturnal and stoic collectors fixation.

Nevertheless, let the seahorse of the present go away

of the broken moan of the scapulars:

it's better this way, to a perpetuity of deadly fears and darkness.

 

From the book: Scarecrow End, 2013

© Painting - Oswaldo Guayasamin

© André Cruchaga