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Llanto por la muerte de un perro Abigael Bohrquez, poema de su libro Fe de Bautismo, publicado en 1960.

Hoy me lleg la carta de mi madre


y me dice, entre otras cosas: besos y palabras
que alguien mat a mi perro.
Ladrndole a la muerte,
como antes a la luna y al silencio,
el perro abandon la casa de su cuerpo,
me cuenta,
y se fue tras de su alma
con su paso extraviado y generoso
el mircoles pasado.
No supimos la causa de su sangre,
lleg chorreando angustia,
tambalendose,
arrastrndose casi con su aullido,
como si desde su paisaje desgarrado
hubiera
querido despedirse de nosotros;
tristemente tendido qued
blanco y quebrado,
a los pies de la que antes fue tu cama de fierro.
Lo hemos llorado mucho
Y, por qu no?
yo tambin lo he llorado;
la muerte de mi perro sin palabras
me duele ms que la del perro que habla,
y engaa, y re, y asesina.
Mi perro siendo perro no morda.
Mi perro no envidiaba ni morda.
No engaaba ni morda.

Como los que no siendo perros descuartizan,


destazan,
muerden
en las magistraturas,
en las fbricas,
en los ingenios,
en las fundiciones,
al obrero,
al empleado,
el mecangrafo,
a la costurera,
hombre, mujer,
adolescente o vieja.

la novia de las trenzas de racimo y de la voz de lirio;


supo de mi primer poema balbuceante
cuando muri la abuela;
al perro fue en su tiempo de ladridos
mi amigo ms amigo.

Mi perro era corriente,


humilde ciudadano del ladrido-carrera,
mi perro no tena argolla en el pescuezo,
ni listn ni sonaja,
pero era bullanguero, enamorado y fiero.

Ay, en esta triste tristeza en que me hundo,


la muerte de mi perro sin palabras
me duele ms que la del perro
que habla,
y extorsiona,
y discrimina,
y burla;
mi perro era corriente,
pero dejaba un corazn por huella;
no tena argolla ni sonaja,
pero sus ojos eran dos panderos;
no tena listn en el pescuezo,
pero tena un girasol por cola
y era la paz de sus orejas largas
dos lenguas
de diamantes.

A los siete aos tuve escarlatina,


y por aquello del llanto y el capricho
de estar pidiendo dinero a cada rato,
me trajeron al perro de muy lejos
en una caja de zapatos. Era
minsculo y sencillo como el trigo;
luego fue creciendo admirado y displicente
al par que mis tobillos y mi sexo;
supo de mi primera lgrima:
la novia que parta,

Abigael Bohrquez (Sonora, Mxico 1936- 1995)


Ladrndole a la muerte,
como antes a la luna y al silencio,
el perro abandon la casa de su cuerpo
dice mi madre
y se fue tras de su alma los perros tienen alma:
una mojadita como un trino
con su paso extraviado y generoso
el mircoles pasado

Lament for the Death of a Dog Abigael Bohrquez, poem from his book Baptismal Certificate, published in 1960. Translation by Andrea Luque Kram.

Today I got the letter from my mother
and says, among other things: kissing and words
that someone has killed my dog.
"Barking at the death,
as before to the moon and to silence,
the dog left the house of its body,
she tells me,
and its went after its soul
with its lost and generous step
last Wednesday.
We did not know the cause of his blood,
It came dripping anguish,
staggering,
almost dragging with its howl,
as if torn from its landscape
it would have
wanted to say goodbye to us;
lying sadly it remained
white and broken,
at the foot of what before was your iron bed.
We have cried for it a lot ... "
And, why not?
I have also cried;
the death of my dog without words
hurts me more than the talking dog,
and deceives, and laughs, and murder.
My dog being a dog did not bite.

Like the ones that are not dogs, exterminate,


tear down,
bite
in the magistracy,
in factories,
in the mills,
in foundries,
to the worker,
to the employee,
to the typist,
to the seamstress,
man, woman,
adolescent or old woman.
My dog was ordinary,
humblest citizen of bark-race,
my dog did not have a ring in the neck,
or strip or rattle,
but it was riotous, loving and fierce.
At seven I had scarlet fever,
and because of my crying and caprice
to be asking for money all the time,
someone brought the dog from afar
in a shoebox. It was
tiny and simple as wheat;
then it grew admired and apathetic
in pair with my ankles and my sex;
It knew about my first tear:
the girlfriend that left,

My dog did not envy or bite.


He did not cheat or bite.

the girlfriend of the bunch of braids cluster and lily voice;


it knew about my first babbling poem
when the grandmother died;
the dog was in his time of barking
My most friendly friend.
"Barking at the death,
as before to the moon and to silence,
the dog left the house of its body,
says my mother
and it went after its soul the dogs have souls:
a little one wet as a trillwith his lost and generous and step
last Wednesday"
Oh, in this sad sadness in which I sink,
the death of my dog without words
hurts me more than the dog
that talks,
and extorts,
and discriminates,
and taunts;
my dog was ordinary,
but it left a heart for a footprint;
it did not have a ring or rattle,
but its eyes were two tambourines;
It had no bar in the neck,
but he had a tail sunflower
and it was the peace of his long ears
two tongues
of diamond.

Abigael Bohrquez (Sonora, Mxico 1936- 1995)

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