YOU, WHITE SEAGULL, BEAT YOUR WINGS

The grotesque mediocre night wanderers
laugh for no reason,
and lacking noble dreams,
hallucinate with false paradises;
they are birds enclosed behind bars
in their prison of clay, in their confinement
of mournful colors,
mere fireworks of illusion.

And you, white seagull of starlight,
you who once soared above the shadows,
who, in the noble calm of the ocean,
sailed through the mist,
today, in your twilight, upon the pathways
of the pale moon,
you carry the troubled sun of your mind
struck by a strange madness.

Spectral messengers of death
have severed the wings of your baptism
within the narrow furrow of snow
through which you now wander lost;
you do not turn toward the heavenly blue harbor
that waits for you beyond the spell,
you are far from the shore,
from your truest refuge.

When will you be able to break those chains
of cold tin links
that you mistake for honey and wax?
Cast your gaze
upon the lilies of new springs,
and let those frozen hours
be consumed by the fire of your ardent youth,
warmed by blessed lights.

For dawn is already rising on your horizon!
The immortal ray already burns your thorns!
Climb toward the summit of your North,
beat your tender wings
and move against the night wind.
Morning arrives,
overflowing with love and fullness of joy,
if only your soul is free.

Emma-Margarita R. A.-Valdés

Traductora: Vekas Rodica

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