poesía – Diario de una Aventurera

Vida Desértica – El Desierto de la Tatacoa, el Gris

Puedo embrujar con mi belleza,
Una mirada coqueta, un vistazo de miel
Y carne y hueso y sangre
Pero eso no me completa
No me define.
Mis venas se convierten en raíces
Buscando tierra fértil en la que
Se puedan sentir en casa
Pero sólo encuentran huecos,
Lugares donde se pueden quedar
Sin angustia, sin molestia, sin pena,
Pero pronto se ponen a morir.
Sus hojas se marchitan y
Se vuelven marrón, gris, negro y
La flor se cae al suelo,
Descuidada, olvidada
En tierra extranjera
Y distante, los recuerdos de
Su belleza encantadora
Se van olvidando, esfumando
Aunque la transplante pidió lo contrario,
Que la cuidara bien la tierra,
Pero está envenenada en cada rincón
Y no había forma de evitarlo
Ni prevenirlo ni siquiera darse cuenta
Antes de que desaparezca todo
Y no queda nada mas que tierra yerma.

Perfect Circle – Montaña el Gigante, Huila

La Lucha Ajena

We cannot fight injustice
In isolation.
That’s what they want–
Each of us struggling from
Our own separate little islands,
Fighting like we’re alone.
Only if we band together
As people, as humanity,
Can true change come.
Why do you think so many
Marxist revolutions ended
In dissolution and confusion,
Corrupted by global capitalism
And elitism and the Vanguard–
Fuck the Vanguard.

Only if we come together as one,
Organize, empathize,
Will we end injustice,
End the bloodshed in the streets
And the mindless fury–
The greed of the rich,
The survivalism of the poor,
All hustling for themselves or
A dream deterred;
Langston Hughes knew:
If we can feel
For a poem or feel
Pain for some character
Whose heart never felt,
Who never existed,
Then why not fight
For our fellow flesh-
And-blood.

We’re always saying:
“The struggle is real,”
But what are we struggling
If not the struggle of others:
The women in the sweatshops,
In the brothels of the so-called
Third world, a broken model,
The obrero and the aspiring
Rapper, painter, entrepreneur,
Survivor, whatever you are,
Wherever you come from–
Compton, Harlem, Honduras,
Martinique, Korea, the Congo,
The slums, the suburbs,
‘Cause who are we?
Are we our hoods
And gentrified oases,
Segregated from one another
As if our flesh were
Sliced in pieces and flayed
From our bodies?
Who are we
To struggle at all,
The struggle of others–
But if we aren’t,
Moving, fighting, bleeding,
Breathing the struggle
Then we are dust on the wind
Of history,
We are soon forgotten,
Negatable, silent,
Better off dead–
Nothing.

‘Cause who the fuck am I?
White girl, middle class girl,
Ignoring the fact that middle class
Is code for upper class aspiring,
‘Cause I never wanted the lies
They were selling, like high-
Priced cosmetics, all fluff
That I don’t need anyway–
I’d rather cut my legs off
Fighting someone else’s
Battle than waste a few hours
Deciding if my skin is too white
To care or if the bags under my
Eyes are too offensive to the eye.
‘Cause I believe if it’s hurting you,
It’s hurting me.
We’re all part of the same body,
And if I let them sever you,
Why not sever myself
And give into the depression
Eating me alive without meaning–
Better with meaning,
To scream till my lungs
Explode, to know
What it feels like
To have a reason
To suffer
And in doing so
Lessen the suffering
Of others.