The Lark
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The Lark

Uninhabited Souls

A poem

SepehrUnsplash

Seen from within,
nothing seems enough;
if the eyes that cry trembling
or the hands that of retained reflections
they can no longer contain us.

We sigh alone
from sorrowful faces,
exhausted from waiting
who does not know what to expect.
Nothing collapses more than
the ignored uncertainty,
that eats away the semi-exposed pupils;
that have anchored forever
our eyebrows to the forehead.
There is no signal in the call or the message,
to remedy abstinence from contact;
nothing to help suppressed affection
of social and affective distance.

The Human vanishes
before the forced exile of his life,
that he has granted eviction
the soul in which he dwells.
Is it a sign of the darkest times?
it occurs to me in a hurry;
worried about mine
and yours
-that they brood together-
overwhelmed with pitiful news
and of protective heroes
who are low in the fight.

Fight that will be a lot,
for this will not be the last;
but only the first
of the burned saga
for the clumsy pettiness
that produces it.
We can’t defend ourselves
only draw momentary
the indifferent event;
what happens to anyone,
ignoring his luck.
Isolating yourself comes first
palace executioners preach;
that snatched
of unexpected power
conspire with care
deciding what is best
(for us) and not the good.

Do you grant this message
some sincere value?
If isolating ourselves protects us,
why don’t they isolate us from death?
Sweetened lies
with placebo syrup,
they only cheat solidarity
personal biospheres
that accumulate fears alone,
mistrust in the threatening other
and spread in the air together
threats that are;
only in the mind.

Collapsed the Society
that contains us,
principal actors
confined to oblivion;
secondary thug henchmen
they interpret at will
the script tailored to his needs,
what is the illiterate measure
of contemplative morality,
but loaded with brutal economy
and social asymmetry.
The dead die definitively,
the living that still remain;
inhabit only a soul that has left.

Almas Deshabitadas

Contemplado desde adentro,
nada parece suficiente;
si los ojos que sollozan temblorosos
o las manos que de reflejos retenidos
ya no pueden contenernos.

Suspiramos solitarios
desde rostros apenados,
agotados por la espera
que no sabe lo que espera.
Nada derrumba más que
la ignorada incertidumbre,
que carcome las pupilas semi expuestas;
que han anclado para siempre
nuestras cejas a la frente.
No hay señal en la llamada o el mensaje,
que remedie la abstinencia de contacto;
nada que auxilie el afecto reprimido
de distancia social y afectiva.

El Humano desvanece
ante el exilio forzoso de su vida,
que ha concedido desaloje
el alma en la que habita.
¿Es señal de los tiempos más oscuros?,
se me ocurre presuroso;
preocupado por los míos
y los tuyos
-que cavilan en conjunto-
abrumados de noticias lastimosas
y de héroes protectores
que son bajas en la lucha.

Lucha que será mucha,
pues ésta no será la última;
sino solo la primera
de la saga incendiada
por la torpe mezquindad
que la produce.
No podemos defendernos,
solo sortear momentáneo
el suceso indiferente;
que le ocurre a cualquiera,
ignorando a su suerte.
Aislarse es lo primero,
predican los verdugos palaciegos;
que arrebatados
de poder inesperado
conspiran con esmero
decidiendo lo que es mejor
(para nosotros) y no lo bueno.

Concedes a este mensaje
algún valor sincero?
¿Si aislarse nos protege,
porqué no nos aíslan de la muerte?
Mentiras endulzadas
con jarabe de placebo,
solo engañan solidarias
bioesferas personales
que acumulan solas miedos,
desconfianza en el otro amenazante
y propagan en el aire convivido
amenazas que lo son;
solo en la mente.

Derrumbada la Sociedad
que nos contiene,
los actores principales
confinados al olvido;
secuaces matones secundarios
interpretan a su antojo
el guión preparado a su medida,
que es la medida analfabeta
de moral contemplativa,
pero recargada de brutal economía
y social asimetría.
Los muertos mueren definitivos,
los vivos que aún quedan;
habitan solo un alma que se ha ido.

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Esteban Giancaterino

Esteban Giancaterino

Painting is silent poetry, Poetry is blind painting - Leonardo da Vinci

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