The Third Day of Poetry

Bethlehem

My eyes are caught:

in one wide gaze, embers of constellations.

And there, figures on the moon.


I sketch a plan on the infinite blackboard.

At times I wish to be surprised - not tonight.


Moonlight casts its own shadows;

I share mine with no one.

Where I stand, few sounds reach me.

My heart pounds.


Suddenly, this night is unlike any other.

I turn to the strong star with my shadow

in fear that I know nothing.


Here I am on Bethlehem’s road:

I raise my right foot,

one single step into the unknown.


A dusty scent of hay:

a hint of the First morning.



Belén


Mis ojos están cautivados:

en una mirada vasta, destellos de constelaciones.

Y allí, figuras en la luna.


Esbozo un plano en la pizarra infinita.

A veces quiero que me sorprenda; pero esta noche no.


La luz de la luna proyecta sus propias sombras.

Yo no comparto la mía con nadie.

Donde yo estoy, me llegan pocos sonidos.

Me palpita el corazón.


De repente, esta noche se vuelve diferente a las demás.

Me vuelvo hacia la imponente estrella con mi sombra

temiendo que ya no sé nada.


Aquí estoy en el camino a Belén:

levanto mi pie derecho,

un solitario paso hacia lo desconocido.


Aroma de polvo de heno:

huella de la primera mañana.

by Gordan Mason from Catapult to Mars.



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