a spectre

The man who was returning from the dead
approached me, and my heart stood cold,
trembling and mute…Neither did he speak,
the man who came back from
the dead…

He was as silent as stone… Yet
in his self-absorbed expression
there was the solemn dread of one who has looked
at a great enigma and becomes the bearer
of the message that the whole globe awaits…
The man who did not speak paused at my side.

And his face and mine came together,
and there arose in my heart a violent desire
to ask questions…But, little by little,
the questions froze on my lips…

The evening shook with a loud howl
of a hurricane…And step by step
the man who came back from the dead
disappeared into the half-light of the declining day…

Enrique González Martínez



Guitars cry
in the wilderness of night.
They are like ailing

The whole town
sleeps in agony…
The moon is a skull
watching over us.

All the sky is laced
with silvery light…
A voice cries out
for Jesus.

The dead stillness
of the moonlight spreads low…
And in the moonlight
at each door a soul expires.

The old people pass by trembling…
Go in peace,
you evangelists
of the Here-Lies!

All the sad city
is a cemetery….
There is a murmur of nostalgia
and mystery.

The cloud holds back
the tears it has in itself….
Beyond, weeps the song
of the river.

From south to north,
like a secret,
passes a draught of misfortune:
it is the voice of fear…

In the peace of the night
there is the celestial
silence of
a funeral urn.

Through the infinite grief
that is in everything
I hear the rolling of the water,
serene and sad.

Guitars cry
in the wilderness of night.
They are like ailing

And through the middle of the town
runs the river,
carrying the memory
of someone who is dying…

Alphonsus de Guimaraens