R O B E R T O C A S T I L L O U D I A R T E
Translated by Linh Dinh
allow humans to fly
like small angels.
We are, without exception, angels
who were expelled from the sky;
angels who roam the earth
with wings much atrophied
from familiar deaths
and small quotidian wars.
Angels populating mountains and rivers,
forests and thousands-year-old deserts;
angels plucked yet filled with happiness
who wander smoking and drinking tequila
in cities that are labyrinths of pleasures,
cities that are imaginary maps.
Angels who fall in love easily
with the small details of life,
childish winks and unchecked lust;
angels who fall in love with the queen,
as well as with a petite waitress
at the eaterie closest to home.
Angels who travel fearfully
on planes, ships and endless trains;
who shoot pools and play dominoes
while the night music sings
in tones derived from poetry
or simple adolescent love notes.
Angels who snort lines of coke
with eyes as brilliant as stars;
angels who know miracles,
histories of worlds distant from
those who could only get there
through the artifices of words.
Angels of human smiles,
sweet carriers of beliefs
and splendid hearts in flames,
of words pleasant to the ear
and caresses that remind us
we are made of joyful skin.
Angels who cry silently
over small daily defeats,
who survive street battles
and cold death threats
because they have hope
like a whisper in the heart.
Angels who are passionate
about daily trifles,
glasses of beer and fruits,
and when they make love,
make little white feathers fly
inside a cheap motel room.
Angels who, after all, stir
their memories of wings
before going to sleep
to dream earthly dreams
where desire and memory
are their lives' sustenances.
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