El árbol de mi Alameda

El árbol de mi Alameda

Los árboles mueren de pie, pero hay noches cuándo sopla el viento y se escucha su pena, sus ramas bailan a los compas del dolor. Quieren que se escuche su lamento, amargo y eterno.

Una vez tenía los muslos fuerte cómo una ceiba, era el fruto de todos los días que lo acompañaba en su caminar. Era un pedazo de madera tallada a la medida, de un corazón carcomido por la injusticia de la polilla.

Era libré como el viento de Agosto, soñaba con volar a cualquier nido, sin ser olvidado. No quería dejar que lo corten, para leña de un fogón.

Que sus hojas caigan al olvido, pisoteadas por la intemperie, sin nadie que las recoja.

El otoño se ha hecho presente, arrugando sus raíces, en un socavón, con olor a tumba. Su tronco se está debilitando, sus ramas ya no abrazan en las noches frías. El árbol esta solo en la mitad de la alameda, parado esperando su hora, su vida llena de cariño ya nadie se acerca. Los pájaros del ayer ya no hacen nido, en sus ramas frondosas, que un día estuvo lleno de cánticos al amanecer.

De pie esta junto al viento que lo acaricia y lo mece suavemente. El no quiere despertar de su letargo, no quiere pensar en su abandono.

Morir con dignidad de pié, florido, bailando su última melodía en la alameda de tantos años.

Brooklyn NY Mayo 11 2023

Poemas Peregrinos Pantaleón

The tree of my Alameda

The trees die on their feet, but there are nights when the wind blows and their sorrow is heard, their branches dance to the beat of pain. They want their regret, bitter and eternal, to be heard.

Once his thighs were strong like a ceiba it was the fruit of every day that accompanied him on his walk. It was a piece of wood carved to measure, from a heart eaten away by the injustice of the moth.

He was free like the August wind, he dreamed of flying to any nest, without being forgotten. He did not want to let them cut it, for firewood for a fire.

May its leaves fall into oblivion, trampled on by the weather, with no one to pick them up

Autumn has made itself present, wrinkling its roots, in a cold sinkhole with the smell of the grave. Its trunk is weakening, its branches no longer embrace on cold nights. The tree is alone in the middle of the mall, standing still waiting for its time, its life full of affection and no one approaches. The birds of yesterday no longer make a nest, in its leafy branches, which one day was full of songs at dawn.

He is standing next to the wind that caresses him and rocks him gently. He doesn't want to wake up from his lethargy, he doesn't want to think about abandoning him.

Dying with dignity standing up, flowery, dancing to his last melody on the mall for so many years.

Brooklyn NY May 11 2023

Pantaleon Pilgrim Poems