Victor Rojas [Colombia / Sweden]

 

It is cold
 
Lovers have fled the grass
and the murmuring voices
no longer ring through your castles of sand
 
You return somewhat grieved
to your annual death
 
Then we meet again
as old friends who faithfully
seek each other
without rituals
without welcoming embraces
 
your waters who camp on the beach
and my soul tired of absence
 
Only you listen
therefor I also listen
to the stories you amassed
during your passing summers
 
love stories, surely,
and one or two absurd deaths in your arms
 
But with you
time aged
without healing my wounds
without erasing
from my skin of distant ashes
the few words of love I still remember
 
Only you understand
 
shadow of the shadows
the extinguished fires
and this Absence transformed to regret
 
Just like every year in the coldest hour
 
 
Lord

I am a child, tired of running
scared of the roads
and the shadows of the night
 
I have slept on pillows of stone
with my open eyes among the stars
 
Lord, perhaps you soar
from star to star
like a refugee child
and everyone leers at you
and kicks after you
and asks for your identity papers
and estrange you from your teddy bear
and your toy tractor
I hope they don´t…
The stars twinkle, Lord
and I want to believe that they are your eyes
wanting to wake up
 
My father’s body
still laying in the garden
next to the cherry tree
 
Mother cries and caresses my curly head
and folds my hands and covers me with her body
 
My eyes know nothing more
than the flames that embrace everything
 
We wander
wander
wander and the fire pursue us
 
There is no longer room on your Earth, Lord
 
The roads are sown
with tears and mines
and at the end of the road
they say there is no room
for children with faces like scarecrows
 
I am tired, Lord
I have forgotten the tales 
about pirates and blue whales
that my grandfather told
before the war
 
Lord,
when my mother and I
come to the end of the road
tell the people that my feet are full of blisters
soon to burst
Tell them that I am small
and Earth is big
 
Tell them
that once again I want to play
the blind hen
and the bridge has collapsed
with what shall we fix it
with eggshells, with eggshells
 
Tell them
that it is not true that You have drawn
on Earth
lines to separate people

 
Tottering words
 
                                       To Ronia
 
The other day
you took your first steps
 
Tripped
fell
fose
 
Tears
a few abrasions
pains more than others
 
Like if your baby feets
got entangled
in life itself  
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Victor Rojas was born in Bogotá, Colombia. He lives in Sweden as a political refugee. He is a poet, writer, and translator. In 2004, he was awarded by the Swedish Academy for promoting Swedish literature abroad. He has published around 25 books. He writes poetry, short stories, and novels. Currently, he is the director of the Jönköping International Poetry Festival.