No soy yo quien atraviesa
estos valles prendidos de ocres,
ni este el tren que me lleva
de un lugar a otro lugar.
La tierra se retuerce
mostrando sus costuras
y de las balsas de agua
emana un vapor sin voz.
Los túneles construyen el paisaje
con su lenguaje de fronteras.
En el vidrio reflejado,
superpuesto a los adolescentes chopos,
a los desnudos almendros de otoño,
a las hayas, sabinas y retama,
al maíz con sus artríticos penachos secos,
mi rostro descansa entre los otros.
Por delante del dormido campanario,
de la vejiga de la fábrica,
de los afilados dedos de los álamos,
otros ensayan a escuchar
el rumor de un tren que nunca se detiene.
Site Visit
It is not I who traverses
these valleys hung in ochres,
nor this the train that takes me
from one place to another.
The earth writhes
uncovering its seams,
and from the water reservoirs
a voiceless vapour rises.
Tunnels build the landscape up
with their language of borders.
Reflected on the glass,
superimposed over the adolescent black poplars,
the naked almond trees of autumn,
the beeches, phoenician junipers and brooms,
the cornfields with their arthritic dry cobs,
my face rests amongst the others.
In front of the sleeping bell tower,
the factory’s bladder,
and the sharpened fingers of the poplars,
others are rehearsing to listen
to the whisper of this train that never stops.
Alberto Marcos is an architect and designer who lives between Madrid and Hampshire. He has published several books of poetry: “Mujer desnudando el Mediterráneo”, Calambur, 1999 (UPM Poetry Prize), “maya”, Pez Privé, 2001, and “NSEO, la urdimbre del mapa”, in-constant, 2014. He has been inconstantly working on his new collection of poems, “School Run”, since then. Hopefully it will soon see the light.
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