Marina Oroza

Poemas

Aura (English)

In reality that corner
Is a quagmire of reincarnations
Converted into mourning shrouds.
In reality the shape of things
Is a palpable aura,
A soul, a hollow eclipse,
A waterfall of frozen horizon
With nothing to hide.
In reality, the skin of the morning
Is the same as the night’s,
Physically emptied island.
We are air fossil
And we are there, that’s all,
Like the shape of things,
Like noblemen without their slaves
And then we invent symbols
That are vessels so we can
Finally name what does not exist.