Las Regiones Perdidas
To Mirek Prochazka
«yo tambien» were the last words I heard
con todos las fantasmas de un viaje
con todos los pasos y paisajes
The second day of conspiracy
a simple twist.
The one who speaks to us in a language I wanted you to know;
him saying:
that god damned nation is looking back at us.

The language I wanted to teach you
just for the day for you to use it and forget it if you wish.
The language of disconnections
one who sings of angels and pintores y Iglesias:
siempre pintas las Iglesias,
con los angelitos bellos.
And instead of drinking tropical waters of Borinquen,
instead of dreaming in Puerto Rican,
instead of looking for a good and solid,
firm balcony fence
or an iron-made balustrade
to hang my self there
with a red rose in my lips,

just out of anger
out of space
out of focus
outside the room
instead of craving for the second serving of something,
of anything they serve
I close my eyelids not to look at
las regiones perdidas,
not to die with you en mis manos
on my way to the South of the North
dreaming in the ruptured and militant vowels
of full stops

Why are you there covered with saliva of gods of no importance
to our dreams
dreamed in the language of perspiration?
I contain your unfinished dream.
I fly inside your buttoned shirt.
I sneak in your shoes and run straight up through your veins,
I tease your moody tissue
and I cannot tell you of times when our tongues vanished
alone scribbling the borders of countries never properly named
after your steps,
I also need a shadow of a brush
to brush a shadow of a charioteer who rides a shadow
of a horse into the shadow of the city
where I want to take you

if I could take you back
to the banks of your bloodstream
you could hear Moldova transfigured
Moldova red
Moldova white
Moldova blue
Moldova red, white, and blue . . .
We could not care less,
Moldova whose consonants sprinkle
like a hollow forgetfulness of our arms;
Moldova senilitá
Moldova leaving the vowels, like this;
Vltava trapped in a vowel Vltava

Yes! We have everything:
We have the point of interest,
We have the grapes but for the moment
We don’t know who they really are,
We have the book, the one
that will never let us sleep again;
We have pages, letters and numbers
which will never betray the reluctance of those we love,
of the unspoken.
We have it all.
Our windows are small but still, we cannot stuff them
with your thirsty minutes,
with your wide open eyes in a kiss.
No! You will not sleep tonight.

I wanted you to sing with me
but your worlds were aimed elsewhere.
Spanish was not on your list
(I see, I see your eyes, tus ojos
Noteentiendo is my name)
nor was it on mine but I had to find a room for it
since she whom I love
and whom I will see after your restless nights,
see her to tell her of your
arms gone in circles,
she feels in that language.
English is just her own.

Things we did: I don’t remember them because thinking of you was thinking of
times to meet up
Things we haven’t done: They are all on my list of things we will never do.
We have it all:
The point of interest,
the grapes
(Strangers are sweeping your home and you are still there)
The point of departure and that performance she would do
if she only knew when and where to look for you
and what you could offer her
once she sits down
just for a minute.

Editor's Note: The poem was originally written in English.