CLAY
The big flowerpot bears a know-it-all face As if she understood the hobbling walk of the worker ant The blades of the towering snow peaks And the mysterious buzzing of Taos. I sit by her side, attentive. I watch it pondering every second With the calmness of a river Centered on a postcard. The clay and I get along well We talk about fire whirlwinds And we laugh at the passersby Who pretend to be chopsticks. Before the rain comes With its insistent blinking I caress the rim in an act of faith And feel its earth-splattered skin. I ask her about the trajectory of rolling stones Before I nudge her off the balcony She keeps silent above the Valley of the Death And with her burst All the secrets in the world. Translation: Jorge Luis Flores Hernández
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