WHAT NOW?
Jorge Freytter
Now that all is lost,
that all is desolate,
Now that it has escaped,
All that is desired.
And now that we meet
Further than this side
And we’re defeated
Without strength and without work.
Now that dreams are opaque
And we don’t have
Nor the strength of arms.
And now that the night is coming,
And now that the day is showing,
Now that we only see,
Few glimpses without their shadows.
And now that only remains
Rubble and misery,
Now we have only
Dread and hysteria.
And now my voice is no longer heard
That my breath is gone,
And that life
Without a thought
Has been consumed.
And now that I can’t
Help you or help me,
I know I can only
Look at you and cry.
And now that there is no course and no way,
Now that reckless fear
Has invaded us.
And now what is left for us,
When it’s all gone,
Now we only ask
That the pain may not be repeated.
And now all that’s left
A remnant of hope,
Now is the time for praise.
And now that we have no great things to give,
Now it’s time to kneel and pray.
And now what?
Everyone asks,
Now it is necessary to build ourselves
A new world.
INDISPENSABLES
Jorge Freytter
What are we?
You might be surprised
Festival of leaves,
Mockery of birds,
Perfume of detritus
Love affairs of seed and earth.
What are we?
Profit of nobility
We are
Cradle of the future
We are
The fortune of the good life
We are
The certainty of waiting.
What do we give?
The essence of the soul
Light to nothingness
Sense to aesthetics.
And what are they without us?
Yes, between day and night
What do they do without us?
That their cries are not reached
That their tragedies are not sung
Yes,
What are they when we are gone?
What could they be without us?
Blind word
Tragedy of dreams
Sea of doubts
The wait
The fear
The question
What about us?
Yes,
Us.
What will we do?
What shall we be?
Where shall we go?
When you, Indispensables
Will be no more.
BE QUIET TORMENTOR
Jorge Freytter
Be quiet tormentor, don’t lie
Don’t talk to me of future days
Nor of false paths
Or of positive dreams.
Don’t remind me of that night
When death whispered impunity
And gazes were hidden
And laughed the complicit applause.
Don’t bring friendship on your lips
Nor the abandoned promise
Or the lie made by law.
Be quiet tormentor
Forget not the scorn of the victorious mockery
Nor that deaf bell
Or the sad voice that no one listens to.
Be quiet
And don’t lie with your guilty finger
As the window closes
Diverting glances
In pleasant fantasies.
Come down from that cloud
To this permanent victim
To the tear that chokes me
To the liberating truth.
Once and for all
Be quiet tormentor
Of mine,
It is time to speak.
ODE TO RETURN
Jorge Freytter
Oh, beach violinist, I’ve lost my way!
Tell me! Where is the way?
Compound odour
Salty paths
Roots and foam
Isn’t that the path and those my roots?
Oh, violinist! in night notes, tell me,
Who ate the crumbs?
Who cut the returning thread?
Who has dared such folly!
O openhanded distance, return what is sweetly mine!
Woe to thee deaf moon, who dares to lie to me!
Woe to you, immaculate sun, birthplace of memories
Woe to you, who illuminated images
Warming returns, nourishing pains.
Woe to you, traitors!
Woe to me!
In this murmur of nothingness
On this cold, virile, concrete hill.
Oh, misunderstood fear!
Now I behold thee from other stars
O House of Hades!
Who is not visited on the eve.
It’s true, violinist!
Forgetfulness, it’s all gone.
With papers
With quotations
With sounds
With your beach.
And now
Dreams of skinning
Compose voids
Waters absences
Shelters pains.
Oh, return, painful return!
You resemble a mighty river from distant shores
To the transparent night,
To a lightning of torments.
Oh, violinist, play then
Break down the music score
To be nothing
Return
And
Begin.
He is a Colombian-Canadian political scientist, writer and hard-working human rights and peace activist. In 2002, he was forced to abandon his studies and then took refuge in Canada in political exile after his father was assassinated. He also published a poetry book “La identidad del Exilio“, and coordinated the publication of the book “Voces de la Memoria“.
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