Translated from the Spanish by James Storbakken
Yes, I imagined I was in a temple where
Everything known fit perfectly into its place. Each object against another
In essence, sweat, pestilence, and vileness;
The pure and the virtues howled and moaned in unison,
Suffering from the excess of their pleasure.
Outside the temple, ethereal music is heard emanating from the spheres,
Some large, others small, all beautiful and exhibiting
Lush, polished surfaces;
Without which, however, they would not lie to me,
For their music is simultaneously an example
Of the most perverse internal torture.
The howling of the sacrificial hoard and the movements of
The spheres are the enchanting melodies that are
Played around the temple hall’s sacrificial flames,
The flames fueled by bones and by memories.
Read another Spanish poem by Pedro Licona, translated to English by James Storbakken, and published in The Antonym.