Ground of blank paper
Is it snow I see, this sheet of sheer whiteness?
This stuff covers the lands, makes it senseless,
As if inspiration had fled, a brutal desolation,
A landscape painted with brushes of spleen consolation.
It was not snow, but a death forest, a nightmare
Where trees do not exist, where subjects dare
Raze the ground for commerce and money,
For globalization, for the construction of history.
This ground of blank paper, the muse for my poetry,
This melancholy I dream, this helplessness that grabs me,
This is what it means to be a seer, a mental painter
Of landscapes petrified, a witness of the human tainter.
Paradox of the sublime, the blank paper, at the same time,
Awe objectified in language and land personified in crime.
I walk that endless land, the horizon merged with the sky,
Each step a new pain, each crack more the soil dries.