“Living with art and  poetry is a kind of life- attitude. It means to consider the marginal things that nobody considers. ” ~ Antje Stehn


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Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchworkis an international art installation project created by the artist Antje Stehn. It consists of two macro-works: an installation featuring a large bag, the Rucksack, made of dried tea bags collected by the 250 participants and an exhibition of short poems written by the poets from all over the world. A video loop installation provides the public with the opportunity to listen to the voices of the poets reciting in their mother tongues. The  installation  was on show at the Il Piccolo Museo della Poesia Chiesa di San Cristoforo, in Piacenza, Italy since September 2020 and the exhibition continued until 1.5.2021. Afterwards shows are planned in other countries like Republic North Macedonia, Ireland, and India. In the meantime the video readings are published on their official Youtube channel ( https://youtube.com/channel/UCaFs-2l5Tv0H-Rfkibm4N6A).

Antje Stehn (Germany) is a poet, visual artist, video producer, art curator based in Italy. Since 1990 she has been showing her work in international exhibitions around Europe and the US.  She is part of the international Collective “Poetry is my Passion”. She is editing for TamTamBumBum, for Los Ablucionistas and Teerandaz. She is member of the scientific committee of the Piccolo Museo della Poesia in Piacenza, Italy. She is the brain behind ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’, a uniquely creative project in terms of its global collaborations, as well as its association with possibly the first ever museum in the world fully dedicated to poetry, conceived in Italy. Advaitam Speaks Literary is honoured to be one of the global collaborators in this really brilliant project born in the time of pandemic. In this Interview with Antaripa Dev Parashar and Debasish Parashar, Antje talks about Project Rucksack and shares her views on poetry and art.

ASL: ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’ was born in the time of a global pandemic. Please share with us the story behind its inception.  

Antje: The Rucksack was born during the first Lock Down in Italy, one year ago, which was a very tough experience, as for everybody around the world. For three months we could not leave the house. In this period, we all were under a kind of shock and developed strange behaviors. I’m an  artist who works with material I take from nature, like spines from trees, blowballs from dandelions , and in that period I was blocked in my work. So I looked around the house for material .I started to make little sculptures out of banana and orange skins and every morning I saved my used  teabag, as a kind of ritual, without any idea. The great thing in art is, that you start doing something, with no clue in your head  and than  suddenly the idea pops up. In fact I always wanted to do a big Rucksack – sculpture. Rucksack in German means backpack. It’s a symbol of free travelling , of the times when it was possible to reach India from Europe through the land route , which is not possible any more ,since many years. There is another aspect which fascinates me in a Rucksack, it’s  the fact that you can basically store everything you need  in life in such a small space. 

But to build a Rucksack out of teabags , I needed lots of them , so I started asking my poet friends to help me and to write a poem so they could also contribute with words to this art-piece. It was  astonishing, everybody  participated with big enthusiasm. My great poet friend  Ana Maria  Pedroso, from Cuba ,with who I work here in Milan, in the collective  Poetryismypassion, pushed me straight away to make a proper project and a public call. Together we invented the title, so it became an initiative of our Collectivo Poetryismypassion. Once the call was in the internet it spread out all over the world. I met the great Indian poet Mamta Sagar and she became the co-curator for India, presenting 28 poets with 15 different languages. After a short time more than 250 poets with more than 56 different Languages got involved. Now the Rucksack is exhibited at the Piccolo Museum of Poetry in Piacenza, Italy, which is situated in a very special old, desecrated church. The poems are exhibited all around the backpack and there is an audio installation, so people can hear all the voices of the poets from the world in all different languages on a long audio loop. It is so wonderful to see a teabag from Ghana next to a teabag form Iceland or Mexico. It is like an upside-down Tower of Babel because it’s emphasizing the value of closeness, so significant in this historical moment marked by distance and confinement

Documentary about

Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork

ASL: You are curating possibly the First Ever Poetry Museum of the World under ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’ at Piccolo Museo della Poesia, Chiesa di San Cristoforo, Piacenza, Italy. Have you been aware of any other initiative in the cultural history of humanity, like yours, in terms of nature and scale?

Antje: The Little Museum of Poetry is directed by Massimo Silvotti and Sabrina De Canio, I am part of the scientific committee. As far as I know,  this wonderful unique museum is the only Museum in the world dedicated to Poetry. It is situated in a very suggestive ambient. 

ASL: Crisis is the mother of creativity. This is the dominant idea about creativity. Can there be creativity and poetry in particular, without crisis?

Antje: Of course ! Living with art and  poetry is a kind of life- attitude. It means to consider the marginal things that nobody considers. You see the world with an “wide angled view”, which is  then focused on certain things, creativity is a game between  restricting  the attention on the particular without leaving the abundance of perception . Everybody has a creative potential, it’s a question of choice , if one  opens up to this potential and to oneself,  you probably choose the stony way of an artist’s life.  Maybe a crisis can give the kick to this, but it crisis is not a permanent condition.

ASL: ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’ intends to break the monopoly of dominant cultural narratives of human evolution and creativity. Has the project been able to bring the world at the margins of cultural perception to the center of cultural discourse and redefine the idea of ‘real adventure’? 

Antje: In this period of forced isolation, Rucksack gave breath to our need to share, art, poetry, civil commitment. It is a poetic artistic work but also a social- literary inclusive art piece. Among our participants there are prominent  famous poets, candidates for the Nobel Prize and poets who live  hidden, with poetry as a second life. During these six months we designed a few sub-events to present our curation and the poems from diverse linguistic cultures in international Festivals like, The Festival Internacional de Poesía Ignacio Rodríguez Galván, in Mexico, World Poetry Day, in Bangladesh , Mothertongue Day in India with Mamta Saga, and the Festival of Ideas, in Ireland . 

ASL: ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’ attempts to address the shared humanity in peoples cutting across societies and anticipates “a sort of nomadism that goes beyond confinement and borders and gives value to all the cultures and languages of the globe.” What kind of role does a project like Rucksack play in a global world order that increasingly revolve around ‘balance of power’ and ‘balance of threat’?

Antje: Rucksack gives value to all the cultures and languages of the globe. This does not mean cultural realtivism. The cultural systems are different, but  have zones of permeability that allows continuous hybridizations, the project aims to  put these into dialogue,  create solidarity and cooperation networks. 

ASL: ‘The Poet’s Backpack’ holds a place of special importance in Project Rucksack. The Rucksack, made of dried tea bags is part of the installation as well.  Massimo Silvotti, a Director of the Piccolo Museo della Poesia, uses the phrase ‘Gandhian Features’ while referring to this integral component of installation under Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’. What are the Gandhian features of this project? 

Antje: Maybe Massimo Silvotti was thinking of the global dimension the project has taken. Gandhi’s idea of a non-violent resistance has spread all over the world, and many social movements, specially in the western world  are still referring to these. Rucksack is not a civil disobedience  project but a connecting project . The common thread are the leaves of tea and all the wonderful relationships on a cultural, historical, geographical, ritual level created over the centuries between the worlds. Worlds understood as people, habits, exchanges, and comparisons. An element taken from nature can still create a bond in a backpack of filters, and poetry literally filters the global feeling. 

Piccolo Museo della Poesia , Chiesa di San Cristoforo , Piacenza ,Italy.
-The Rucksack made of Used Tea Bags at the Poetry Museum
Antje and Sabrina.

The poet’s backpack by Massimo Silvotti 

The journey: hanging out in the unknown, foreseeing the possible, reviving the visible. A good traveler is primarily a human being with intellectual vivacity; ready – at times eager – to re-evaluate his own paradigms of life. At the Poetry Museum we love to travel. Indeed, as we have conceived it, the museum itself is our journey. Every single window, every object it contains, is a journey into the unfathomable. Maybe it is because Poetry is motion to place. Always a step ahead, in step, sometimes backwards, of humanity. Try to imagine a poet’s backpack, indeed I ask you for a further effort; could you imagine a column of poets, a few hundred, walk, walk, cross the world with a single, magical, backpack? Shoulder to shoulder,  with a vibrant, supportive, thirst-quenching joy. 

I’m talking about a concrete, tangible project; of a performance and a great artist. I’m talking about a rather odd backpack, and one of the oldest drinks known. An installation, a work of art, a simple backpack, but entirely made up of dried tea bags, which have come from all over the world, from over 50 countries, from over 250 poets, who, to the tea bags, already carry imbued and silent with persistent life stories, they have added traveling poems to them. A travel bag, a humble drink, a few hundred poems; distant, even unknown languages.

This backpack that is container and content at the same time; this backpack like an upside-down Tower of Babel, where languages are observed, communicated, fraternized. A backpack that makes us believe it is possible that the disorientation of these times; the weight, the fatigue, the pain itself of this viral burden of ours, may diminish, may be relieved, may socialize, step by step, from breath to breath, from voice to voice. This backpack speaks to each of us individually, I believe. It speaks to us of a generative and regenerative will: mater et pater. It speaks to our pressing need to socially start living again. It speaks for sure to me, that the more the years pass, the more I want to cross a desert of flowers with that backpack on my shoulder; speaks to Sabrina De Canio (director of the international area of the museum) who believed most of all in this project, favoring its benevolent contagiousness in the literary world; he speaks above all to, and of, Antje Stehn, a genius artist and poet, with whom we are honored to collaborate artistically.

This backpack of hers and ours is exhibited at the Museum (and will become part of the permanent collection), and the tea bags, of a hundred and more colors, I heard them talking to each other at night. But because of Covid, hardly anyone was able to sip this work with Gandhian features. And yet the Backpack never stopped walking; in India, just to cite the most representative example of the number of poets involved (the poet Mamta Sagar, co-curator of the project, managed to involve poets from 15 different Indian languages), during a press conference held in recent months for understanding and spreading this idea of the Rucksack to Global Poetry Patchwork, Antje and Sabrina were asked to outline its most hidden meanings. But in fact, from Mexico to Ireland, from Bangladesh to Canada and again and again, half the poetic – artistic world knows, appreciates and supports this performance which I would not hesitate to define as ecumenical. To us, everything moves emotion. It is moving because it makes us believe a little naively that the world is something different from what we are commonly told. It is moving because it makes us feel perhaps that we ourselves can be that world we have longed for.

(Massimo Silvotti is director of the Piccolo Museo della Poesia , Chiesa di San Cristoforo , Piacenza ,Italy)

ASL: Tea bags can be a historical symbol of cultural exchange and migration of ideas. At the same time, tea was a major component of colonial trade in the colonial era. It was through colonial trading practices that tea reached the West from the East. Tea automatically comes with the baggage of colonial legacy as a cultural symbol. Why tea?  

Antje : Tea bags have a long history dating back to the eighteenth century, when the Chinese started sewing small square bags to better preserve the aroma of the different teas.  From around a thousand years ago, the Tea Horse Road was a trade link from Yunnan to Tibet; one war horse from Tibet was traded for 20-60 kilo of tea from China. The teabags in the Rucksack include also herbal teabags, that is why it’s so colorful. Tea bags continue to be one of the smallest containers that we use and find in every home. Carrier bags were among the first tools used by women and men to carry objects and memories. Our ancestors were hunter-gatherers, but actually gatherers were predominant, given that 80% of their food came from collecting seeds, roots, fruits in nets, bags and in any type of light container. Bags were important tools for transporting goods, yesterday just like today, as we can see bags being used as shopping containers in the supermarkets. This is why we decided to place the tea bag at the center of attention, as the heart of a cultural meeting, and the Rucksack as a trace of our bond with nature and migration.


Tea bags have a long history dating back to the eighteenth century, when the Chinese started sewing small square bags to better preserve the aroma of the different teas.  Tea bags continue to be one of the smallest containers that we use and find in every home. Carrier bags were among the first tools used by women and men to carry objects and memories. Our ancestors were hunter-gatherers, but actually gatherers were predominant, given that 80% of their food came from collecting seeds, roots, fruits in nets, bags and in any type of light container. Bags were important tools for transporting goods, yesterday just like today, as we can see bags being used as shopping containers in the supermarkets. This is why we decided to place the tea bag at the center of attention, as the heart of a cultural meeting, and the Rucksack as a trace of our bond with nature and migration.

However, we cannot but wonder why are depiction of great hunting scenes predominant on the walls of caves rather than people busy harvesting and carrying bags to collect food? This question also occurred to Ursula K. Le Guin, a science fiction writer who wrote the so-called Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction, based on the Carrier Bag Theory of Human Evolution by anthropologist Elizabeth Fisher. Le Guin noted that it is difficult to tell a story about how seeds are extracted from the peel, day after day in the same way. Hunting, on the other hand, is a real adventure, full of dangers and surprises, its final apotheosis being the killing, when a huge mammoth, for example, falls to the ground. This is material for an action story and it is what our ancestors probably told each other sitting around the fire. But also, tragically, it marks the beginning of the normalization of violence and of a narrative focused on it. The act of gathering, on the other hand, had little narrative potential; at best it was suitable for poetry dealing with the world at the margins, that few cares about. However, on closer inspection, poetry tells us about a different look at the world, of an alternative to the monopoly generated by a single story. This is the reason why the project includes the Rucksack made with recycled tea bags, a collection of short poems by the participants and an audio loop.” ~ Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork.

ASL: The idea of migration is a double-edged sword. It has its gifts as well as its curses. Please elaborate your idea of migration and its relationship to poetry.

Antje: Yes, unluckily our societies do not consider immigrants as an enrichment, but they focus on the problems which of course are not missing. Art and poetry are migrating since contemporary art exists. The first important art movements like Surrealism and  Dadaism were international movements right from the beginning. 

ASL: Visiting and travelling are two related, but different ideas. Travelling is associated with freedom of the mind in the real sense. What is your opinion regarding the same? 

Antje : Yes, normally you visit someone you already now, while travelling means to be open for new encounters. An artist is an eternal traveler. Rucksack has created a very strong  networking among all the participating poets and this is an alternative way to travel from one country to the other , people build bridges, get to know each other, this is a real adventure for me.

Rucksack Channel with videos of Participants :


ASL: What is the most significant contribution of social media in redefining the idea of poetry in modern times? What is the significance of curating poetry physically in the age of social media, big data and digitalization?

Antje: The internet gives us a big opportunity to connect to each other, but as we know social media’s design is meant to nurture an addiction, manipulate us , and it is monopolized by a few top tech companies and social media platforms such as Facebook, Google, and Apple. 

ASL: Creative networking is an essential component of your project and poetic vision. Please share your views on the same. 

Antje: In the Rucksack Installation , all participants become part of a collective. This is special, because artist normally are individualists. It is important to develop your art, become a good artist, be highly creative but it is also very important to do networking, to use art as a means of communication to go beyond the traditional places which are consecrated for art.

ASL: Please tell us about the Team behind ‘Rucksack a Global Poetry Patchwork’. Who are your present and upcoming collaborators?

Antje : One of the first collaborators of this Poetryismypassion project, as I said before , is Ana Pedroso, from Cuba who lives in Milan. We work together in our Collective  Poetryismypassion which organizes events with the international artist community in Milan. We are a  perfect mixture of working-mentality, she has the Latin  spontaneity and I have the German organization.  In these three years we have organized more than 50 events in different places in Milan. We brought poetry to strange places like Jazz clubs, fashion fairs, In the courtyards, on the street. The aim is  to bring poetry to people who normally don’t listen to poetry and get into comunication.

The first co-curator  of Rucksack from the very beginning was Mamta Sagar who organizes Kaavya Sanje in India.  For the second edition we added new curators: Viviana Fiorentino for Ireland and Igor Pop Trajkov,and Daniela Andonovska-Trajkovska  for the Republic of North Macedonia who will after the Covid Pandemic organize Rucksack- exhibitions in their countries.

And we have a long list of collaborators, La macchina sognante (Italy) ,The Dreaming Machine (US), Letters with Wings (Ireland); Teerandaz (Bangladesh),Time of the Poet Republic, (Zimbabwe), World City Monthly (Canada) ,Los Ablucionistas (Messico), Cervena Barva Press  (USA), Erkut Tokman (Turkey), J’an Argana (Maroc/Italy) the international group Poetas Sin Fronteras – Poets Without Borders and of course Advaitam Speaks Literary . With all these collaborators we organize Rucksack – Reading Events in their countries.

ASL: Can poetry change the world?

We have to change this world before it’s too late . We are not just threatened by the Covid Virus, but we are in the middle of a most dangerous Climate Crisis .  The artists have an important role . As an artist, one has the task of analyzing the habitus of one’s own time , which are the collective forms of thinking of the contemporaneity and trying to understand what’s going on and communicate this to others. There is  term  which actually comes from the Buddhist tradition ,which is “mindfulness”, it means, receptive attention to current processes and experiences to do this you need curiosity, openness, acceptance .


(This Interview script is prepared by Antaripa Dev Parashar and Debasish Parashar for Advaitam Speaks Literary journal).

Brief Bio-notes of the Curators:

Antje Stehn

Antje Stehn (Germany) is a poet, visual artist, video producer, art curator based in Italy. Since 1990 she has been showing her work in international exhibitions around Europe and the US.  She is part of the international Collective “Poetry is my Passion”. She is editing for TamTamBumBum, for Los Ablucionistas and Teerandaz. She is member of the scientific committee of the Piccolo Museo della Poesia in Piacenza, Italy.

Antje’s Youtube Channel :


Mamta Sagar

Mamta Sagar (India)is a noted Kannada poet, playwright and translator from Bengaluru. She is the founder director of Kaavya Sanje Trust. Presently she teaches at the Srishti-Manipal Institute and is based out of Bengaluru, India.

Viviana Fiorentino

Viviana Fiorentino (Ireland /Italy) is a poet, translator, activist of the organization  Letters with Wings.

Igor Pop Trajkov

Igor Pop Trajkov (Republic of North Macedonia) is a renewed writer and filmmaker.

Daniela Andonovska-Trajkovska

Daniela Andonovska-Trajkovska (Republic of North Macedonia) is poet, scientist, editor of the literary Magazines  “Rast” and  “Growth”,  university professor.


Poems by Gaby Sambuccetti (Argentina | UK) ~ Poet, Editor and Managing Director of La Ninfa Eco (UK) ~ Spanish / English


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Gaby Sambuccetti (1986) is an Argentine-born, UK-based writer. She holds a BA in Creative Writing from Brunel University (London) and she is a Latin American & Spanish Literature teacher (Argentina). She is the founder & managing director of a magazine & podcast called La Ninfa Eco (UK) with a team of writers & academics from Europe, the UK & Latin America. Also, she was the former Director of Events at the Oxford Writers’ House (Oxford, UK) a hub that brings Oxford’s universities and local community into dialogue through creative writing projects. In 2019, she was invited to the House of Lords (UK) to be part of a discussion about writing and freedom of the press.  She is the author of Glasses Love to be Broken and To the Knot for What it Took Away (Argentina).  

She has performed in different countries and her books, reviews, and collaborations appear in different magazines, anthologies and literary projects from Argentina, Brazil, Peru, Germany, Bolivia, the US, Mexico, Chile, Italia, Spain, Bangladesh, India, Russia & the UK.  

She will start a postgraduate degree in  Comparative Literature in the UK, where she has lived since 2012.  

My Mistakes 

I’m far from God, 

and I know  

I exist oceans away from him. 

I lead with my teeth  

and my hair, 

and my boat are my bones. 

I like the sea, but I try not to swim. 

Because we are all gyres full of non-recyclable mistakes. 

And we soon will disappear, 

but our mistakes will trap  

and suffocate fish 

long after we’re gone. 


Mis errores 

Estoy bastante lejos de Dios,  

y existo en un océano alejado 

de su reino. 

Tengo dientes, y pelos,  

y barcos hechos  

con mis huesos. 

Me gusta el mar, 

pero trato de no nadar. 

Porque todos somos 

bolsas no reciclables, 

Y vamos a desaparecer pronto…  

Pero nuestros errores van a seguir atrapando  

y sofocando peces,  

bastante tiempo después  

de nuestra partida. 



So many crystals 

split us 

that perhaps 

only the stones 

can save our distances. 



Tantos vidrios nos separan  

que tal vez  

solo las piedras  

puedan salvar  

nuestras distancias. 



If I were a politician, 

I would be OK just with small things, 

But no, we are hanged people, not politicians. 

This thing makes me feel dizzy: left, right, left, right, left… 

As hanged people we need to get comfortable with yarns and fibers…  

and If all the butter is glued up onto the ceiling,  

we need to take it down.  

If we behave well, 

they will give us more rope.  



Si fuese un político 

me conformaría con las cosas pequeñas.  

Pero, no. 

Los colgados no hacen política.  

Marea demasiado esta cosa: 

Izquierda, derecha.  

Derecha, izquierda, derecha. 

Los colgados tienen que acomodarse bien la soga. 

Si la manteca está en el techo,  

Los colgados  




Si nos portamos bien, 

nos dan más soga.   

Poems by Luis Eduardo Rendón (Colombia) ~ Poet and Program Coordinator of the Medellin International Poetry Festival ~ Spanish / English


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Luis Eduardo Rendón was born in Roque, Antioquia, Colombia, in June 1972. He has published the following poetry books: Harp at the Mercy of Invisible Hands, 1996; The Speed of Stones is Blue, 1997; Universal Gong Night, 1997; After the Spectral She-Wolf, 1998; Mercurio Square, 2000; Book of Presages, 2011; The Oldest and Purest Game Never Ends, 2014. The flame is sweet in its place is his last book (Unpublished yet).

He has belonged since his early years to the organization of the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, to the Prometeo Art and Poetry Corporation, and to the Editorial Board of Prometeo Magazine. He is the program coordinator of the Medellin International Poetry Festival.

For Medellin International Poetry Festival :


For Revista Prometeo:



From Luis Eduardo Rendón’s Poetry Book,


English translation by G. Leogena

En el árbol genealógico

de la luz, la mirada

es la niña recién nacida


Al huir, derramó la noche

sus gemas de rocío,

y entonces surgió el colibrí

La piedra

esculpida por el agua

recuerda su infancia de fuego

Para volver

a la infancia

sólo conviértete

en la Tierra

con todo tu ser

El viento

es el padre

de los secretos,

los lleva

hasta las bocas

La lluvia,


rebosa de mensajes

El rayo

es el juego

de un dios

que no pudo

ser olvidado

En la infancia cabalgamos

relámpagos y aún perdura

ese resplandor

Noche, trébol

de las mil y una hojas


jardín de relámpagos

El nado transparente

de las aves,

el vuelo transparente

de los peces

La eternidad

visita tu jardín,

como un colibrí

In the genealogical

tree of light, the gaze

is the newborn girl


In its escape, night spilled

its gems of dew, and so

burst forth the hummingbird

The stone

sculpted by water

remembers its childhood of fire

To return

to infancy

just become

the Earth

with all your being

The wind

is the father

of secrets,

he takes them

to mouths

The rain,

like a medium,

overflows with messages


is the game

of a god

who could not

be forgotten

In childhood we rode

lightning and that brightness

still remains

Night, clover

of the thousand and one leaves


garden of lightning

The transparent swimming

of birds,

the transparent flying

of fishes


visits your garden,

like a hummingbird

Rating: 5 out of 5.

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Poems by Milica Milosavljević (Serbia) ~ Award-winning Poet and Literary Reviewer ~ Serbian / English


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Milica Milosavljević was born in 1991 in Čačak. Her poems were published in the magazine for poetic research and activity “(sic!)”, “Književni Magazin”, “Beogradski Književni Časopis”, “Sent”, “Libela”, “Ars”, in the online poetry magazine “Enklava”, as well as the literary and cultural web portal “Strane”. In 2014, she won the “Milutin Bojić” library award which enabled her to publish a poetry book titled “Dark Intimacies” (Tamne intimnosti). In the same year, she was the winner of the festival for young poets “Days of Poetry” in Zaječar, which included her book “In the Zone of Temperate Continental Fears” (U zoni umereno–kontinentalnih strahova) in their edition. In 2019, she won second place at the Ratković Poetry Evenings for young poets. She is a student at the Department for Serbian Literature and Language with Comparative Literature at the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade. As well as poetry, she writes prose and literary reviews. 

Years Dedicated To Illusions 

For long I believed that I was here 

to bring joy to others  

to freshen their lives with poetry, 

although no one felt the need for it, 

let alone its possible meanings 

all they wanted was to take part in this body and 

grasp its lustful reality 

by observing others 

leaving, their heart would, for a moment, 

pound harder 

if they would realize 

that from now on they will be 

my formal culprits for everything  

soon, their heart starts to beat 

in its usual rhythm 

gradually it starts to forget 

and I, since then, up till now, 

devotedly ponder 

every moment of our encounters 

like a scientist in front of a microscope. 

A Girl’s Dream 

I don’t want to be put on the horizon of hope 

like on a breathing machine 

I want to swim in the direction opposite to waiting 

one can become a slave even in brief 

safety relief encounters 

I see you a few years from now lying on a beach 

wearing a bikini and drinking a shake, he tells me 

forget writing 

you must live fuller, fishier 

you cannot simply become a fish, a fish-poet 

at the bottom of this low-calorie and no-yeast world 

you mustn’t show off your curves so as to surrender to others 

the cruelty you have intended for yourself 

don’t identify with the role of feeder of innocent horny 


they’ll fly just the same 

remember – it is your kind 

that is most prone to falling. 


I grew up in a home 

where everything was poetry 

from lunch to airing the room 

from avoiding responsibility to awaiting a new sunrise 

there was no he-poet in the house 

there was she-poet 

but there were always poems 

when we grow up  

we will defend ourselves from these poems –  

my sister would say 

and my brother would say 

and I would say 

when we grow up 

there will be no poetry 

we will surround life from all sides 

and dance to the rhythm of uncertainty. 

(Translated in EnglishLucy Stevens) 

Poems by Mariela Cordero (Valencia,Venezuela) ~ Poet, Translator, Lawyer and Visual Artist ~ Spanish / English


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Mariela Cordero (Valencia, Venezuela, 1985) is a lawyer, poet, writer, translator and visual artist. 

Her poetry has been published in several international anthologies and she has received some distinctions, including, Third Prize of Poetry Alejandra Pizarnik, Argentina (2014) ; First Prize in the II Liberoamerican Poetry Contest Euler Granda, Ecuador (2015); Second Prize for Poetry, Concorso Letterario Internazionale Bilingüe Tracceperlameta Edizioni,Italy (2015); and First Place in International Poetry Contest AniversarioPoetasHispanos, Spain (2016). 

She is the author of the book of poems “ El cuerpo de la duda ” Ediciones Publicarte Caracas, Venezuela (2013). Her poems have been translated into Hindi, Czech, Serbian, Shona, Uzbek, Romanian, Macedonia, Hebrew, and many other languages. She currently coordinates the sections PoesíaVenezolana and PoetasdelMundo in the Revista Abierta de Poesía Poémame ( Spain ).  

Interruption of the Light 

When the lights went out 

Our hearts were inhabited by fateful fables 

the night-once beloved-was baptized 

by the sowing of panic 

We were close to one another 

And blood spread in the penumbra 

Like an alluring perfume. 

Many navigated by scent 

And desired to bathe in a convulsing red river 

When the lights returned,hours later 

We didnt recognize our faces 

Splashed with the bestial grins. 

Our land was filled with bodies, 


We listened to moans of pain, 

Saw our hands stained with blame 

And it was too late when we discovered 

That we,too,were fatally wounded. 

Translation by Aaron Devine 

Love the shadow 

Invasions of light are usually corrosive  

to what lives in the shadows. 

 It is easy to love the dark,  

the coldness with the smell of torrid vegetation.  

Peace and danger amalgamated  

in the mouth of the inviolable black horizon.  

Swim forever in an ocean woven of gloom,  

protected only by the irregular flapping 

 of birds dressed like the night.  

Without hurtful illuminations the meaning can be spilled, 

 you can embrace languid hopes  

and caress the symptoms of a rainy and exquisite love. 

 In the shadow we are all dark stars. 

A dream for the summer 

In your hand will dance an unexpected map, 

 invented to find  fountains and water accidents  

in the avenues of this city that is melting.  

The dawn will know how to hide its dew 

 when our thirst turns violent.  

 The night will lie hesitantly on the grass.  

Our only instinct will be to seek 

 under the skirts of the earth  

and kiss it until the center of its humidity. 

This season will blossom as a prelude to fire.  

Summer will be the liberation of the ardor 

 that always strikes us within. 

The unprecedented dance that will go out to heat the street and the bodies. 

The first. 

I am the first 

I’m at the beginning 

Of time 

In the middle of the gloom 

In the particle 

Of this sunset 

And to the edge 

Of the collapse. 

I am all 

And none. 

Public Body

I don’t inhabit a country; I inhabit a body 


meekly unfurling 

over voracious ruins 

and breathing the smoke of burnt days. 

I don’t inhabit a country; I inhabit a body 

without bloom 

that suffers 

stripped of respite 

the indelible tremors 

of the recently raped. 

I don’t inhabit a country; I inhabit a body 

flush with bones 


like knives 

that turn cruelly 

against whoever dares 


a tentative caress 

across its devastated surface. 

This body 

does not recognize all that is not 

a bruise, 

an unclosable wound, 

or an abrupt act of depredation. 

I don’t inhabit a country; I inhabit a body 


that dances with massacre 

and, impregnated by the most wretched 

of the rabid pack,  

only knows to birth death. 

I don’t inhabit a country; I inhabit a public body 

so diminished 

that it’s hurt by my faint footsteps 

and tormented by the murmur of my hope. 

I curl into myself, 

into a tiny docile place 


from the irregular pulse 

of its fabled, bygone beauty 

as I devour 

each detail of its meager heat. 

I curl into myself 

and hope that morning 

astonishes us with proof 

that both 

this body I inhabit and I 


the long night 

            of the pack. 

Translation by Aaron Devine 

RASA NYĀSA Featured Artist ~ Linda Ibbotson | Cork, Ireland ~


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Linda Ibbotson is a poet, artist and photographer from the UK, currently residing in Co. Cork, Ireland. Her poetry, artwork and photography has been published internationally including  The Irish Times, Irish Examiner, Poethead, Levure Litteraire, California Quarterly, Itaca (featured Irish poet and translated into Romanian), časopis Harmonie (Czech  music magazine) Limelight ( Australian classical music and arts magazineBoyne Berries 27 and Live Encounters.  

A photograph was exhibited at RDS Dublin and an artwork print – Lismore Castle Gallery, Co. Waterford.  

She was invited to read at the Abroad Writers Conferences in Ireland. Her poetry has been read on radio and performed in France by Davog Rynne. 

She writes a poetry and arts blog ‘Contemplating the Muse.’  



Like life, art to me is experimental and spontaneous. “

Whichever medium I work with I rarely have a preconceived idea of the final image. That to me is creative joy, albeit a little daunting! 

Art has the power to express silently. It is an emotive and at times a unifying experience, perceived uniquely by both the artist and observer.    

My preference is contemporary art and find it meditative. After working with acrylics I chose to work with an unusual mixed media. I submerged layers of tissue paper in water and acrylic paint, maneuvering playfully and intuitively, photographing with absorbing precision. In The Moon I also used a crystal which became illuminated by the sunlight as it played with natural elements of light and shadow, energizing the delicate and exciting images that emerged. The layers depict our vulnerability, sensitivity, strength and energy as in Wave.    

Botanical – This innovative, decorative artwork depicts these unprecedented times. It epitomizes our fragility and how swiftly we can become frozen. Stillness, silence, a gradual thaw forms the integral theme. The technique I use is to freeze flowers in a block of ice, including here, the beautiful white lilac Madame Lemoineand literally paint them with acrylic paint, photographing them simultaneously as they thaw, the oxygen bubbles add life, texture and interest. A print of this artwork was in an exhibition at Lismore Castle Gallery ‘Stories from Lismore and Beyond’ 31/07/20 to 11/10/20. 

Looking beyond the obvious. To feel rather than think is my intention along with the words of surrealist artist Leonora Carrington “You’re trying to intellectualise something desperately and you’re wasting your time. That’s not a way of understanding…” – Linda Ibbotson.

Poems by Alberto López Serrano (El Salvador) ~ Poet, Academic, Director of the International Poetry Festival ‘Amada Libertad’ and the Poetry Festival of San Salvador ~ Spanish / English


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Alberto López Serrano (El Salvador, 1983) is a teacher of English and mathematics. He is a Member of the Alkimia Cultural Foundation and coordinator of the project Wednesday of Poetry since January 2008. Alberto is the Manager of The Writer’s House — Salarrué Museum of the Ministry of Culture of El Salvador. He is the Director of the International Poetry Festival “Amada Libertad” and the Poetry Festival of San Salvador, apart from being a Member of THT.  He has participated in festivals, meetings and fairs throughout Central America, Mexico, Cuba, Peru, Bolivia and Colombia.  He has published the poetry books: The ship is missing (2007), A hundred sonnets of Alberto (2009), And how impossible not to call your groin (2009), Mountain and other poems (2010), The horse tamer (2013) and Songs for my boys  (2014). 


Veinticuatro caballos corren sobre tu espalda. 

Algunos se desbocan, te rompen las costillas 

si aúlla la trompeta que puya sus caderas. 

¡Y creíste que el Pienso les calmaría el trote! 

Golpean sus ijares, duro, uno contra todos. 

Tu piel resiste apenas la bulla de los cascos. 

Algunos han piafado canciones suaves, lentas, 

y han mordido tus venas y el aire de tu cuello 

mientras sueña tu oído un azul sorprendido. 

Patean tus costillas de nuevo cada día. 

Veinticuatro caballos corren sobre tu espalda. 

¿Ninguno quedará después del arrebato! 

Uno tras otro, van desgranando tu espina. 

Uno tras otro, pesan y caes contra el piso. 

Uno tras otro, a diario regresan y te montan, 

se asoman a tus hombros y te escupen los ojos 

y drenan con sus lenguas los besos que no diste 

alguna noche verde. ¡Aquella noche verde! 

Los caballos dormían y la ciudad dormía… 

Pasan, pesan y pisan, te rompen las costillas 

si aúlla la trompeta que troncha sus caderas. 

Uno tras otro, irán cayendo sobre el lodo 

de besos y costillas. El último caballo, 

abajo, te dirá que subas, que estás listo.  


Twenty-four horses run on your back. 

Some run wild, they break your ribs 

if the trumpet howls blowing their hips. 

And you thought that the feed would calm their jogging! 

They hit their flanks, hard, one against all. 

Your skin barely resists the noise of the hooves. 

Some have pawed soft, slow songs,  

and they have bitten your veins and the air on your neck  

while your ear dreams a surprised blue. 

They kick your ribs again every day.  

Twenty-four horses run on your back. 

Will none be left after the outburst?  

One after another, they are shelling your spine.   

One after another, they weigh and you fall against the floor.  

One after another, daily they come back and ride you,  

they peek at your shoulders and spit on your eyes  

and they drain with their tongues the kisses that you did not give  

some green night.  That green night!  

The horses slept and the city slept …  

They pass, weigh and step, they break your ribs  

if the trumpet howls cutting their hips.  

One after another, they will fall on the mud  

of kisses and ribs.  The last horse,  

Below, will tell you to ride him, that you are ready. 

*In Latin: They all hurt, the last one kills.  



No es Helena quien te está esperando  

con dorados bucles en su alegre cara 

cuando subas alto en los muros derrotados. 

Verás la sombra de una idea, 

el fantasma de un perro desquiciado que te ronda. 

Te acercarás para sitiarlo 

y sus dientes de niebla habrán de traspasarte. 

No es Helena quien te espera. 

Debió quedarse en Pafos, Tiro o Menfis. 

Nunca estarás en Troya. 

Sus murallas siempre han de caer bajo el látigo ciego de tus días triunfales. 

No es Helena. 

Tampoco te amará morbosamente. No es Helena. 

Será la mordida de un recuerdo, 

la ficción de un encuentro que tú planeaste, 

una jauría de lobos sobre el tejado azul, 

en su boca negra verás a Casandra por fin muda en su advertencia loca, 

en su boca negra verás a Hécuba llorar amargamente por ti. 

No es ella. 

Un reflejo masticado, 

el eco débil de un grito contra el muro, 

el golpe sordo del caer los velos en el mármol, 

un lejano tambor que se congela, 

sombras que bailan cuando el aceite en la lámpara se está acabando. 


¿Y después de la caída? 

Hormigas devoran tu equipaje nuevo. 

Un brindis, 

y un perro sonríe como un dios dormido que no acepta libaciones ni jactancias. 

Cuando subas por las Puertas Esceas, 

cuando corras los velos para ver hacia abajo la llanura, 

cuando se queme la luz sobre tu cara 

y admires la sombra opaca de la idea que esperabas encontrar después del triunfo, 

sabrás entonces que no es Helena quien te está esperando. 


 It is not Helen who is waiting for you 

 with golden loops on her cheery face 

 when you climb high on the defeated walls. 

 You will see the shadow of an idea, 

 the ghost of a deranged dog that haunts you. 

 You will approach to besiege it 

 and its mist teeth will pierce you. 

 Helen is not waiting for you. 

 She must have stayed in Paphos, Tyre or Memphis. 

 You will never be in Troy. 

 Its walls must always fall under the blind whip of your triumphant days. 

 It is not Helen.  

 Nor will she morbidly love you.  It is not Helen.  

 It will be the bite of a memory, 

 the fiction of an encounter that you planned yourself, 

 a pack of wolves on the blue roof, 

 in their black mouths you will see Cassandra finally silent in her crazy warning, 

 in their black mouths you will see Hecuba cry bitterly for you. 

 It’s not her. 

 A chewed reflex, 

 the faint echo of a scream against the wall, 

 the dull thud of falling veils on marble, 

 a distant drum that freezes, 

 shadows that dance when the oil in the lamp is running low. 


 And after the fall? 

 Ants devour your new luggage. 

 A toast!  

 And the dog smiles like a sleeping god who does not accept libations or boasting. 

 When you go up through the Escaean Gates, 

 when you run the veils to see down the plain, 

 When the light burns on your face 

 and admire the opaque shadow of the idea that you expected to find after the victory, 

You will know then that it is not Helen who is waiting for you. 



No me abrases, Dionisos. 

No tienes en tu voz la trampa de los días. 

Quisiera reinventar el calendario. 

Morder los meses, masticar relojes de arena. 

Quizás conjeturar un nuevo siglo de abandonos. 

Mejor sería que la noche fuera para siempre. 

Su estrellado arrullo nos vuelve siempre primitivos. 

El ruido lácteo de las cosas nos reclama y nos arroba. 

No haces falta, Dionisos, para el salto. 

No tienes en tu voz la trampa de los días. 

Déjame vaciar las cráteras de las horas, 

perseguir de nuevo las agujas y los números, 

vaciar los ojos y correr a tientas, Dionisos, 

perseguir las manos que me van halando hacia el desierto, 

vaciar las manos de palabras resecas, 

perseguir onagros dorados por los desiertos arenosos. 

Mejor tomaré el vino del acto de la oscuridad  

o al menos cantaré el poder del perro. 


 Don’t hug me, Dionysus. 

 You don’t have in your voice the trap of days.  

 I would like to reinvent the calendar, 

 bite the months, chew hourglasses,  

 perhaps conjecture a new century of abandonments. 

 It would be better if the night lasted forever. 

 Its starry lullaby always makes us primitive. 

 The milky noise of things claims us and enraptures us. 

 You aren’t needed, Dionysus, for the jump. 

 You don’t have the trap of days in your voice. 

 Let me empty the craters of the hours, 

 chase the needles and the numbers again, 

 empty my eyes and grope, Dionysus, 

 chase the hands that are pulling me into the desert, 

 empty my hands of parched words, 

 chase golden onagers through sandy deserts. 

 I’d better drink the wine from the act of darkness 

 or at least I will sing the power of the dog.  

Poems by ELIZABETH TORRES (Colombia-Denmark) ~ Poet, Multimedia Artist, Editor of Red Door Magazine and Director of Red Door Art Gallery ~ Spanish / English


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ELIZABETH TORRES (Madam Neverstop) was born in Bogotá, Colombia in 1987. She is a Poet, Multimedia Artist, Translator and Speaker. Her work intertwines poetry, visuals and soundscapes, language and performance, combining visions and concepts across various art forms and media. Elizabeth is a prolific author of over 20 poetry books published in various languages, most of them which she also illustrated, who has travelled to 30 countries throughout her career as part of cultural events and projects. Elizabeth now resides in Copenhagen, Denmark, where she directs Red Door Magazine and a gallery under the same name and the art & culture podcast Red Transmissions. She is also project coordinator for other initiatives in Europe and abroad. Learn more at  :


The State of Things 

Grief and hunger and insomnia 

hangovers and migraines and Sundays 

a box of secrets under the bed 

you’d rather not discover yet 

the smell of rotten bananas in the hallway 

loud screeching of rats in the streets 

or is it anxiety 

summer and winter 

bad news on TV 

a desire beginning to take form 

between the eyelids. 

You can tell by the stench 

that you’re not doing marvellous 

but you are doing, 

and that’s miles ahead 

from anyone’s predictions. 

From: The Ways of the Firefly 
Moloko Print, 2020 



Tipsy, soft bodied beetle 

known to produce a cold light 

from the lower abdomen 

to attract mates or prey. 

The form of the insect varies 

from day to day. 

In many species, 

both male and female have the ability to fly 

but in some 

the females are flightless. 

Most fireflies are quite distasteful 

(to eat) 

and sometimes poisonous 

to vertebrate predators. 

Sit down, honey 

pour me another drink. 

It would be difficult 

to find a friendlier insect 

on a warm summer night 

such as this. 

From: The Ways of the Firefly 
Moloko Print, 2020 


Gettin’ on with it 

Seagulls soar through the sky with ease 

they know what to look for 

and where to find it 

they let out a screech here and there 

it paints the songs of the ocean 

with hints of comedy 

then they disappear in the horizon 

what is left is the galloping sea waves 

arriving and arriving 

but never really here. 

People tend to have ideas, 

they have solutions for problems you haven’t presented 

urgencies and timelines to tighten the shoelaces 

all under the pretence of affection. 

People worry so much about things that don’t concern them 

always finding neat tricks for your salvation 

people know no better than to intervene 

it proves their god-likeness 

and ample hearts. 

I soar through the streets with ease 

I know what to look for and where to find it 

I let out a screech here and there 

It stains the days with hints of sorrow 

then I get lost into the night 

what is left is the sparkles of fire 

arriving and arriving 

but never really 


From: The Ways of the Firefly 
Moloko Print, 2020 

RASA NYĀSA Featured Artist ~ María Elena Escudero Ortíz | Anserma- Caldas, Colombia ~


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María Elena Escudero Ortíz was born in Anserma- Caldas (Colombia) in 1958. She studied plastic arts in the school of arts called Eladio Vélez of Itagüí Antioquia. 

She has participated in the following collective expositions: 

  • Circulo de Bellas Artes. (Madrid 1994). 
  • Museum of religious art (Jericó –Antioquia 1996) 
  • Sala Ligia Pimienta. (Itagüí City Council 1998-2001-2009-2011) 
  • Seventh fair for Colombian Services (Florida-USA 2019) 

She has been teaching in various private and public sector institutions for 25 years, organising workshops for children in deprived communities. She has been teaching children with disabilities for 3 years. 

Poems by Filonilo Catalina (Peru) ~ Poet and Writer ~ Spanish/ English


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Filonilo Catalina (Peru) is a Writer and poet residing in Arequipa. He has published several books of poetry, among which the following stand out: Memoirs of a cutthroat (Arequipa, Triángulo Editores, 2000), The song of the cockroach (Arequipa, Triángulo Editores, 2003), Janaí, or to dance under the rain (Arequipa, Grita Ediciones, 2004), Poetry (Arequipa, Ediciones Cascahuesos, 2006), The Monster of the hills (Lima, Ediciones Copé, 2007), Stigmas (Arequipa, Cascahuesos Editores, 2011), Bird architecture ( Arequipa, Cascahuesos editores), First universal accident (Rupestre editions), POP ESÏA (Rupestre editions) and Perpetual Movement (Rupestre editions). His work has been recognized and awarded in different literary competitions. 


Antes tenía una cabaña y un perro 

luego tuve un cerro 

ahora tengo un río 

un río que canta mientras duermo 

y una mujer 

(Su cuerpo combina con el mío 

como sus largas piernas con el río) 

Al fin / tengo manos / de eso sí estoy seguro 

y no porque estén pegados a mis brazos 

digo que tengo manos porque escribo 

Estoy convencido 

que lo único que podré ahorrar es el calor y el cariño 

y me alegro por no tener que matar a nadie 

por no ganarme el pan con la pena ni el hambre 

Pienso en lo que hay tras una ventana 

en lo que esconde un suspiro y 

la alegría del agua, el agua 

en ese su modo de andar que tiene sin mirar atrás 

Es una locura la seriedad 

cuando tu sonrisa crea 

el más grande parque de diversiones en la ciudad 

En todo final está el secreto del principio. 


I used to have a cabin and a dog 

then I had a hill 

now I have a river 

a river that sings while I sleep 

and a woman 

(Her body matches mine 

like her long legs with the river) 

At last / I have hands / I’m sure of that 

and not because they are attached to my arms 

I say I have hands because I write 

I’m convinced 

that the only thing I can save is warmth and affection 

and i’m glad i don’t have to kill nobody 

for not earning my bread with grief or hunger 

I think about what is behind a window 

in what hides a sigh and 

the joy of water, water 

in his gait that he has without looking back 

The seriousness is crazy 

when your smile creates 

the largest amusement park in the city 

In every ending is the secret of the beginning. 



Mi padre no fue pescador 

(eso / también a mí me lo reprocharán) 

y no me hice a la mar 

pero soy azul turquesa 

me puse en el vientre de mi madre 

y esperé nueve meses para olvidarte 

en el río del olvido me bañé dos veces y 

eso no fue previsto por el viejo Heráclito de Efeso 

Cuando nací 

mi grito (más que llanto) 

anunció la tercera estación de mi madre 

mi vocación de equilibrista lo aprendí 

a punta de decirle adiós a mi padre 

que a pesar de no ser marinero 

siempre se estaba yendo 

el oficio de ilusionista 

(que ejerzo ahora con maestría y esmero) 

fue vital mientras crecía 

y el primer y único público que tuve 

fue mi propio corazón 

ahora he aprendido a decir fuego 

sin quemarme la boca 

mi padre no fue pescador 

no me hice a la mar 

pero soy azul turquesa. 


My father was not a fisherman 

(that / they will also reproach me) 

and I did not go to sea 

but I’m turquoise blue 

I put myself in my mother’s womb 

and I waited nine months to forget you 

in the river of oblivion I bathed twice and 

that was not foreseen by the old Heraclitus of Ephesus 

When I was born 

my cry (more than crying) 

announced my mother’s third season 

I learned my vocation as a tightrope walker 

about to say goodbye to my father 

that despite not being a sailor 

he was always leaving 

the office of illusionist 

(which I now exercise with skill and dedication) 

it was vital while growing up 

and the first and only audience that I had 

it was my own heart 

now i’ve learned to say fire 

without burning my mouth 

my father was not a fisherman 

I did not go to sea 

but I’m turquoise blue 



Si en un universo paralelo Yuri Gagarin 

hubiera sido don Toribio /él 

también hubiera atravesado 

el corazón del cielo 

claro / como dice la canción: “en su escoba” 

eso en un universo paralelo 

donde sabemos que X pertenece a un U paralelo 

la matemática nos diría que el conjunto es igual a Ф 

pero si tu mirada 

(por un viento, un pensamiento, una molestia o cualquier simpleza) 

hubiera chocado con mi mirada 


una variable cualquiera 

(recalco “en un Universo paralelo”) 

hubiera hecho que mi corazón 

(sí, ese órgano músculo y hueco) 

habitara, aunque sea, por un segundo tu cuerpo. 


If in a parallel universe Yuri Gagarin 

it would have been don Toribio / he 

would also have crossed 

the heart of heaven 

of course / as the song says: “on his broom” 

that in a parallel universe 

where we know that X belongs to a parallel U 

mathematics would tell us that the set is equal to Ф 

but if your look 

(by a wind, a thought, an annoyance or any simplicity) 

would have collided with my gaze 


any variable 

(I emphasize “in a parallel Universe”) 

I would have made my heart 

(yes, that muscle and hollow organ) 

will inhabit, even for a second your body. 



Decir Malú es la forma correcta de cazar el primer 

pájaro que anida la primavera 

Y las mañanas 

son un pretexto que ha inventado el sol para 

asomarse a los ojos de Malú 

Sólo para que se den una idea les diré: 

que Malú es la imagen de una flor empuñando 

otra flor (o sea una flor al cuadrado) 

que Malú es una selva endulzando esta amarga 

ciudad con sus repentinas aves 

que Malú tiene la distancia de todas las aves y 

que todas las aves se apellidan Malú 

que Malú es el final de los ríos 

que Malú es la consecuencia de las lluvias 

que si Malú cierra los ojos se me apaga el mundo 


para explicar la estación que provocas en mi cuerpo 

diría que tienes la belleza de una escalera en un planeta lejano 

o simplemente desataría mi corazón en plena calle 


para invitarte a salir 

tendría que romper mi alcancía de flores 


Saying Malú is the correct way to hunt the first 

spring nesting bird 

And the mornings 

They are a pretext that the sun has invented for 

look into Malú’s eyes 

Just to give you an idea I will tell you: 

that Malú is the image of a flower wielding 

another flower (i.e. a flower squared) 

that Malú is a jungle sweetening this bitter 

city with its sudden birds 

that Malú has the distance of all the birds and 

that all the birds are called Malú 

that Malú is the end of the rivers 

that Malú is the consequence of the rains 

that if Malú closes his eyes the world will turn off 


to explain the season that you cause in my body 

I would say you have the beauty of a staircase on a distant planet 

or would I just untie my heart in the middle of the street 


to ask you out 

I’d have to break my flower piggy bank 

Malú, malú 

Malú malú 


Si estuvieras esta tarde conmigo te diría 

flaca, este mundo que no alcanza lo podemos 

estirar en una cama 

y tú 

me mirarías plantada en este mundo como un árbol 

extraño pero cálido 


si estuvieras esta tarde conmigo 

no tendrías más remedio que abrazarme 

abrazarme hasta encontrarte. 

Malú, malú 

Malú malú 


If you were with me this afternoon I would tell you 

skinny, this world that does not reach we can 

stretch on a bed 

and you 

would you look at me planted in this world like a tree 

strange but warm 


if you were with me this afternoon 

you would have no choice but to hug me 

hug me until I find you.