Youth Dialogues (Diálogos con la juventud)
it glides like the cry
crying of mother
crying of soul
Pain watches her
head down, silent.
it unveils itself and with fury
It seeks a new coexistence
of arts, loves,
peaces, and dreams.
It seeks to be able to exist in art
voice, poetry, and youth.
When the soul aches
When the soul aches
When rage is felt
peace is forgotten
all movement confused.
But the young resist
their aching soul
their burning rage.
The young create, harmonize,
They seek change, create cries
the young poet mends and remembers,
seeking futures, they cure the soul.
Blacksmith, I am just a metal
I fold with the hammer
I melt when heated.
Blacksmith, I feel your blows
your intent to destroy
and I resist, waiting for the day
in which, from this piece of iron
a sculpture decides to sprout
a sculpture that makes everyone love, remember, and dream.
We’ve been given the land
15 hectares, 7 cities
for us to inhabit and build
for us to multiply
and continue with their project.
We wished to go out and exploit our inheritance
touch the land
enter the buildings
roam the streets.
But a voice filled with authority stopped us as we went.
“This land is yours but you cannot touch it.
These buildings are not for climbing
and these streets are not for roaming.
Don’t become landscape,
inert city rock.
Develop the project, but do not dig at depth.
Because the cold asphalt can’t be changed now.”
Confused, we looked at each other.
If we can’t inhabit this land,
why would we want to inherit it?
my dad used to warn me: curiosity killed the cat
We filled ourselves with courage,
we went out silently.
The sound of footsteps over concrete filled the streets.
We heard a lump hitting the floor, a body fell
and we saw it.
The body turned to stone and we understood
the caution with which they spoke to us.
We understood the building, the hectares.
The growth of the cities and the silence in the streets.
We entered, we told the story.
We described the color of the stones
and the sound of the asphalt.
We decided to look for flowers,
to plant art,
and search for a different existence.
A garden filled with conscious memories in the middle of the street.
Translated by Lucía Amaya Martínez