Hamlet letters

 

1

 

 

someone said - maybe the god who created us -

that there are more things in heaven and on earth

than we can imagine

die, sleep, dream even

They are privileges that the flesh

cannot always receive

nor does he know how to use

 

the worms of thought

they cloud the gaze of those who want to see

when the sea recedes

and the skeletons of the words remain

to whom the poet god

can't cleanse the pain

not even worth it

 

behind each letter

lives a lion with insatiable hunger

and he is not crazy

has the cruelty of sanity

 

 

 

2

 

 

she knows that I loved her

more than my mother, even more than my father

she was my sister

My left hand

my right eye

the olive trees on the river

 

He must have entered the convent the day I asked him to.

Now she is surrounded by waters that fall like virgin voices

forever lost in my thoughts

 

because she is leaving

Ofelia disappears from memory

-even though time here passes so slowly-

and love is no longer what it was

pain and ecstasy

it's poison

first sweet, then tasteless

and without beauty

 

 

 

3

 

 

everything dies

to my father's crown

is being lost on earth

but it is the sea and it is the waves

that eat away at the precious metal of its architecture

framework of your soul

 

I, his son Hamlet,

I am a worm eating your flesh

just as he drank the blood of the invaders

I am the nail that lost in the battle

and the dust in their hair

the fly perched on his crown

when walking through the field of the dead

 

but don't tell him anything, Horacio,

Father knows I miss him

like someone waiting for his lost hand

be born again

 

I had spiders in custody

sad sheep, dogs that bit me

and I couldn't even keep

 

Without children, man's love is nullified

a number zero made of straw

 

 

 

4

 

 

tell yorick

when you die and see it in heaven

-I am in hell with the new king-

I miss her makeup face

his lost smile

the day he took my neck with his hands

and he asked: are you afraid of dying?

 

tell him to ignore the gravedigger's words

His skull will rest in front of my queen's mirror

for her to see how she will end

while she puts powder on powder

and she won't laugh then

 

but I will still listen among the voices of my guilt

the beautiful, terrible laugh

by Yorick the jester

mocking the tragedy of life

 

 

 

 

5

 

 

children are blind stalks

of large docks that fight waves

one day we will have to drink the same salt

and look at ourselves in the father's mirror

His body also has the structure of worms

 

if the will sometimes produces spiders

and it's a smelly liquid under shells of skin

like sex that is hidden out of shame

sit in front of the waves to build with thought

the one who will come to look for us

It's maybe better than dying by a sword

before the age of thirty

without knowing what a son is

nor how to kiss the cheeks of a dead person

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

6

 

 

we kill with different meanings

offenses against the vile are forgiven

but they condemn themselves against the faithful

we bury the dagger in the flesh

we smell the aroma of the teeth of the dying

and does not abandon us until together

we exhale the breath in the face

from the next in the chain

 

go out to fight

with cries of fury like the squawks of birds

that writhe in the hands of the hunter

It's not the same as anger.

that eats away at the souls of cowards

 

gravediggers and dead

they divide the world

 

 

                                            

7

 

 

what is a name

I have the sound of my father as an emblem

but not his head and beard

the blue eyes in the noble face

last king who was born without sorrows

and he married the bird that disturbs dreams

 

a name can become carrion

when the gravedigger pronounces it

smell like feces if the person wearing it has stolen it

-a gift ceases to be a gift when it is not deserved-

and he is an idiot will puppy

 

the name becomes the target of darts of iniquity

in the hands of history

and it's not even worth it anymore

the little mental pain

of the effort to remember it

 

 

 

 

8

 

 

the waves are souls in pain

hitting the coast

where we look for bones

that explain the night songs

 

the waves burst, they break

then they return to form again

but the drops on the stones of the towers

They come together and create beings of flesh

 

they talk, that's the worst

one can bear one's own voice

but not that voice turned into dead

who come back to give us more work:

ours and the one they couldn't do

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9

 

 

I will not dedicate a letter to you, mother

just an epitaph and oblivion

regret and poison

in glasses that they did not know how to avoid

the death of the kingdom

 

turn back time

reverse the deadly silence of swords

your mouth

ulcer where they sink

the stony fingers of men from your bed

 

you fly over

like a bird of prey

giving advice to kill

the memory of my father

but there are things

that you can't tear from a man's body

speck of dust and stain that does not erase

a last vestige of pride

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10

 

 

It's funny how one makes victims

those who do not wish to become such

or maybe the little hidden shadow

sniff out the smell of busybodies

 

I will not apologize, dear Polonius, for your death

my remorse is paid

with the madness of the beautiful Ophelia

 

fathers and mothers

puppeteers writers

of our actions

 

Sometimes I wonder

If not it would be better to kill them

we are barely born

the pain of his absence

It would be more bearable than resentment

 

 

 

 

11

 

 

Rosencratz and Guilderstein no longer exist

I have delivered them to the mouth of the sea

They said they were my friends

but they were corrupted holes in the bones of the kingdom

 

I saw their eyes when they came closer

their smiles saying

everything is fine don't worry

there is no pain if it is the hands of a friend that kill

 

who will put their hands in the fire for another man

in this kingdom where beards

They are masks over dead faces

 

look at your dogs, Horacio,

they will bite you if you hurt them

but they will throw themselves into the fire, if that is what you order

 

 

 

 

 

12

 

 

soldiers battle

I wield verses about ghosts

 

men die between swords

I talk about loves that rot

 

the fire of war breaks out

the world dissolves into dirt and rain

corpses grow like old dog feces

 

I simulate and play in madness

I breed worms in my soul

I dig into my father's bones

 

something smells like rot

maybe it's Ofelia's body

served on a table

within reach of our peaks

while the voices and the aroma arrive

of the men who fight in the fields

that virgin smell of dead trees

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

what starts badly

It can't end well, my dear Horacio.

I know these letters are heavy

and I have overwhelmed you with my pain

 

Let me give you a hug and a kiss on the cheek in return.

let your chest touch mine

and the fanfares of your prayers fall

like wild dogs on oblivion

 

you are the man who will link the times with his hands

 

the walls will fall

the fields will continue to fill with dead

but the memory

is always more persistent than rats

Ilustration: Jules Brehel