cuentos de barro - DSpace Universidad Don Bosco

BruMa
Pringaba siempre, como toda la
noche, como todo ayer... El día había
nacido de la escurana como un humito
azulón. Era tiempo de ñebla y la laguna
estaba dormida, borrosa, y de ella se
desprendía con el silencio un aroma
triste. El agua gris, perdida en el cielo
gris, era casi invisible. Dulcemente
batía la orilla como si la besara. En
aquella orilla oscura parecía finar el
mundo suspendido sobre un presepicio
de tristeza.
El cayuco se desprendió de la palizada
con pechazos suaves de pescado
colasero. Como el alma diun palo viejo
que se desprende del mundo, así el
cayuco se fue alejando, volátil, en aquel
cielo de ñeblina. Hundía y alzaba el
ala delgadita de la pértiga, coliando
timonero con la pluma del remo.
Un pescador cantaba. Su voz volaba
entre la ñebla 144 dorisca, como un
murciégalo atontado salido diun
oscuro querer. Murientes ecos
sobreaguaban en la distancia. En
aquella luz que se disolvía en la bruma,
extrañas formas parecían despertar
al conjuro del canto. Caderas de plata
venían danzando sobre el agua muda;
azules cabelleras flotaban en la brisa y
había allí, en la margen, vagos ruidos de
bocas que se abren a flor de agua, de
suspiros, de besos, de gárgaras, como
si todas estas brujerías se hubieran
despertado para embriagarse en la
mañana sutil.
144. Arcaismo de niebla.
70
MIST
It was always drizzling, all day yesterday
and all of last night... The day had been
born out of the dark like a blueish
smoke. It was the time of mist and
the lagoon was sleeping, blurry. A sad
aroma of silence emanated from it. The
gray water, lost in the gray sky, was
almost invisible. The waves sweetly
caressed the shore as if it were being
kissed. On the dark side of the lagoon
the world seemed to end, suspended
over a ditch of sadness.
The fishing boat departed from the
trees like the soft flutter of a live fish.
Like the soul of an old tree that departs
from this world, the boat vanished like
a fugitive in the foggy sky. The skinny
wing of the pole sank and rose weaving
with the edge of the oar.
A fisherman sang. His voice was flying
in the golden fog like a groggy bat that
has just emerged from the dark. In the
distance dying echoes on the water
were heard. In the light that was being
dissolved in the mist, strange shapes
seemed to wake up to the spell cast by
the singing. Silver hips were dancing
on the silent water and blue hairs were
floating in the breeze. In the margins
there were vague sounds of mouths:
sighs, kisses, and gargles that are
opened to blossom water, as if all this
witchcraft was awakened to become
inebriated in the subtle morning.