Evening weaves its silence
along the narrow borders of the houses.
It conceals sharp edges
with the advancing sound of dense night.
The rafters tighten their grip
on crossbeams, roof tiles.
The last yellow rays dwindle,
return to nothing.
Skein of vivid blue becomes
an arousing hum, the light
of morning on its breath.
The eye hungers:
scarcely a single glimmer
in the deep core
at war with the senses.
Fear leaps up,
overwhelms the moment.
Trembling, quaking, trembling.
A whisper is a long scream without a sound.
Claudia Torres (born 1951) Honduras
Translated by Dave Bonta
Source: Via Negativa
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