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Contemplative, Juvenal Soto, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeJuvenal Soto

Baghdad

This city was not a matter for men, But its river was, as were those who therein dwelt Much to the surprise of its waters. If cobalt were the purest of colors, The Tigris would be not the river of purity, But the form of purity racing to the sea, There where it dissolves among Shipwrecks and algae, And the great bull whales That swim southward should the world of man End there, There where dawn, no longer part of the night, Is born. The emperor thus knows That in his birth there was a river, A dream of sweet waters
ContemplativeJuvenal Soto

Marble Torso of a Roman Youth

His flesh, pale as the marble Fashioned into the destiny of his days, Is on display in the show window Of a nearby antiques store on The Alameda de Hércules. As for his soul, if he had one, No one is sure what merchant Might now possess it. Two centuries after Christ, Someone did make sure that a block Of purest stone render him immortal, Like the flight of birds Or the ebb and flow of the tides. I invited him to dine with me, To share lamb, And his story and the stories
ContemplativeJuvenal Soto

Avenue in October

The deities of dream Take their afternoon stroll down this street Leading to the sea. This avenue is neither Broad nor beautiful, But the African-born wind rises And leaves something here Akin to the warm And domestic happiness Of those who don’t ask why. The clouds sketch The outline of the travelers Who discover the waves and pray For their dead children, Or for the ones that never arrived, Like this treeless street
ContemplativeJuvenal Soto

Days on the Shore

Dragged up by the fury of storms, Monstrous cadavers of cattle Were still wide-eyed As if begging heaven for a clemency Which they were not again to see. We set about prodding with our lances —spikes of sugar cane—the drums of their bellies. From the depths of the dead animals Issued a great gust of happiness, For we imagined that those corpses had come to realize, At some moment during the deluge, Amid the muddy and terrifying waters, That there and only there was to be found freedom, A roar of waste and silt-laden branches, An avalanche of strange beasts Which were never to tread

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