Suddenly I saw myself,
a complete image,
with an expression
rehearsed over the years.
I was a man of crystal
who reflected the world,
holding nothing back.
I saw myself different
from the other images
of me alive
in the mirror:
a [darker] shadow on my head,
a [deeper] abyss at my feet,
a [thicker] wood within me;
the unconsciousness of a plant,
obedient to the breeze,
a reed of solitude,
no longer thinking,
— earthly solitude,
my only company! —
I saw myself in a fleeting reflection,
looking from outside
at the being who lives within,
a masked recluse
in his wandering seclusion.
Jorge Carrera Andrade
Island of solitudes and bells,
the days dash us against your cliffs,
your peak of rest and candour,
your immensity cut through by the hours and the birds.
Your mass of new light emerges out of time,
and little by little you share out your weekly gold,
and making us rich in celestial allotments.
Our tired feet touch your last step as if it were a bed,
or coveted foam, or an agitated cupola
where birds of wine celebrate
the hands’ sweet holiday.
We reach your coasts each week
as shipwrecked men,
to fill ourselves with lights and to seek out the palm tree of repose
or the plans for the treasure hidden in the clouds.
Jorge Carrera Andrade
Your jubilation, in flight;
your restlessness, in the air;
your life, in the sunshine, in the air, in flight.
How tiny your death,
under the light of living fire.
How serene the grace of your wings,
now [pressed] open forever in the book.
And in you, so gentle, in your silent death,
in your dreamless dream,
how many illusions lost in the air,
how many despairing thoughts.
Colonize sadness with your voice
Child of the sea having no other care
He sleeps in the shade of my flute and his fingers
Watch closely my heart is a beacon
And my prayers climb an inner stair like a tree
I tell you you’re beautiful
Like a room in some hotel
Here beneath the eglantine
And the crown of thorns
You look for the rope ladder and the polite violin
Tell me forever you adore my second chin
If I were a stream or a tourist
You’d all love me the way you love artists
But I hate winter and the eye’s lids
And your little star wondrous as it turns
I like patience and the swallow
The bed with sails for the dreamless voyage
As waves consume the precise night
And the head rises and the balloon bursts
Under the paper moon which slides away
Looking for the words hung from the sky
Vicente García Huidobro Fernández