Research paper by Andrade N.

Indexed on: 08 Jun '18Published on: 06 Mar '18Published in: Literary Imagination


For my father, in unknown CundinamarcaIA myriad of thorns, your name:a voice on a fallen bridge.The river surges,runs,dies, disappears into unlistening sand.Eliseo, your name.Eliseo Madiedo has died andCundinamarca is the name of this silence.Only today is my back relieved of your death:I don’t know you any more.Your shadow’s epitaph gives my last name.Throat tight as I fail to recognize myself,I have never heard these words,I have never seen these hands,this earth that blooms like the dead.The day buried beneath my dry eyelidsprouts, hot spring,these last few nights when I ask myselfif I know Death,if my eyes have buried my living or if they water themlike dying plants.Leonardo is my name.Rats gnaw at the foundation of my house.Madiedo sounds like a familiar crackling,I do not remember it exactly.Leonardo, I say to myself in disbelief,between crumbling cliffs and the calm of the needlethat embroidered this name into the handkerchief.IIFather,my prayer revives your burial flowers.Yet your distance from the materialis not dissolved in these sound waves that touchmy voicewithout your voice as support.I am a tree without rootsplanted into life without deathor its unlistening dead.Yet there is another sorrowbeyond that of the tree and the songless bird:the sorrow of the song that petrifies in my throatand does not consider hours, or air—a fragile fire splintering in a void of seven skies(like that of one hand and two eyes)for the seven lives on this paper that recalls you;but your death is just one,just one,as irreversible as this life that takes you in its throat.IIIThe echo of your blood sleeps,father,in the cage behind the petals.The distance of your handsembraces the earth in wait,like a fearful root.Your face, most distant from the sun;your feet, most deaf to the crackling of the daysthat fall from the trees;your fence of a voice that we jumped as kidsit opened and it closed you,it opened you and it closed.Now the riverpours into the pond the unmoving reflectionof an unjumpable fence.At the table we sit as halfof what we used to be,multiplied by your eyeslike the bread and the fishin a wasteland that listens until it is fertile.Where will I pick the flower of your deathif time has closed you in and turned you to earth'