Octavio Paz (March 31, 1914 – April 19, 1998) was a Mexican poet and essayist. Born in Mexico City. Paz's creations blend Latin American native culture with the literary traditions of the Spanish department, inheriting the metaphysical recourse of European modernism and the belief in the creation of a realm of freedom through language. In 1990, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for "his works full of passion, broad vision, permeated with the wisdom of perception and embodying perfect humanitarianism".
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="313" > branches</h1>
A small bird
Falling on pine branches,
Tweet singing.
.
It stood up suddenly, like an arrow
Fly into the distance,
The song became faint.
The bird is a piece of wood
Good at singing, accompanied by loud singing,
Burn alive.
Look up: Empty.
There was only silence
Shake on the branches.
Translated by Zhao Zhenjiang
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="312" > Street</h1>
It's a long, silent street.
I walked in the darkness, stumbled,
Climb up, step on dry fallen leaves and silent stones,
One foot deep, one foot shallow.
There are also people behind me who trample on them:
I stop, he stops,
I run, he runs.
When I turned my face, no one was silent.
It's pitch black, there's no way out,
I walked around the intersection
Always back to where it was,
There was no one waiting for me, and no one followed me.
But I'm chasing a man,
He fell and got up,
As soon as I saw me, I said: No one.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="311" > interrupted song</h1>
Today I think of the dead in my home.
The first one that we will never forget,
Although he died as fast as lightning
It's too late to beautify and lie down on the spirit bed.
I heard the cane on the steps hesitating,
The body was fixed in a sigh.
The door opened and the dead entered.
There was only a small distance from the door to the death
There's almost no time to sit down.
Look up at the hour hand
I knew; at eight thirty-five.
Night after night she worshipped the King of Hades,
Her struggle, a train can't move,
How long that goodbye was.
Greedy mouth
The longing for that glimmer of emptiness,
His eyes darkened and he refused to close
and make the light in front of me dimly shake,
Firm gaze embraces the gaze of another other,
This gaze suffocated in the embrace,
It finally escaped and saw clearly from the shore
How the soul sinks and loses its body
And no eyes were found that could be captured...
Does this gaze also invite me to die?
We may die just because
No one wants to die with us,
No one wants to look us in the eye.
He only went for a few hours
And no one knows how quietly he went.
Every day after dinner,
There is no pause in the color of nothingness,
Or hanging on a silent spider silk
No ending statement,
A corridor has been opened for returnees:
His footsteps are echoing, coming up, stopping...
Some of us stood up
And close the door.
But he remains the same in another world.
Peeping in the void, in the folds,
Wandering in the suburbs, yawning.
Even though we closed the door, he would not change his course.
The face that disappeared on my forehead,
Faces without eyes, firm, empty eyes,
Am I looking for my own secrets from them?
The God who makes my blood flow,
The God of Ice, the God who devours me?
His silence is the mirror of my life,
His death was delayed in my life:
I was the last of his faults.
Scattered thinking, scattered action,
Scattered names
(lakes, useless areas, pits cut open by stubborn memories),
Gathering and dispersing,
This me, his abstract eyes,
Always share with another me (the same one),
Anger, lust and its various masks,
Slow erosion, buried vipers,
Wait, fear, act
And its opposite: stubbornness in me,
Asking to drink water that was previously refused to them,
Ask to eat the bread, the fruit, the body.
There is no water for a long time, everything has dried up,
Bread without taste, bitter fruit,
Domesticated, chewed love,
In a cage of invisible iron rods
Masturbating monkeys and domesticated bitches,
What you devour will devour you,
Your victims are also the executioners who slaughter you.
A pile of dead years, a folded newspaper,
Pry open the night
And in the dawn of red and swollen eyelids
The expression on our bow tie when we opened it,
The lights on the street had gone out
"Spiders, don't take revenge, salute the sun",
And we got into the bed tent half-dead.
The world is a circular desert,
The heavenly court has been closed and hell is empty everywhere.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="310" > view</h1>
Busy insects
Sun-colored horses,
Cloud-colored donkey,
Clouds, huge rocks losing weight,
The mountains are like a falling sky,
A tree drinking from a stream,
Everything is there, feel lucky about the situation,
Facing us who are not there,
We are angry, we are hated,
Swallowed by love, by death.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="309" > this side</h1>
— To Donald Sutherland
There is light. We neither looked nor touched it.
Resting in its empty clarity
Something we see and touch.
I saw it with my fingertips
My eyes touch something:
Shadow, world.
I paint the world with shadows,
I spread shadows with the world.
I heard the light beating on the other side.
Translated by Dong Jiping
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="308" > insomniacs</h1>
Vigil in the mirror:
The moon accompanies it.
Reflections on the reflection,
Spiders weave their intrigues.
Almost without blinking,
Thoughts on Alert:
There are neither ghosts nor concepts,
My death was a sentinel.
Not alive, not dead:
Awake, I'm awake
One eye in the desert.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="307" > Ustica</h1>
A series of summer suns,
The sun and its succession of several summers,
All the sun,
The only, alchemist's gold
Now it becomes
Stubborn khaki stone,
Substance before a thunderstorm
The darkness cooled.
Fist of Stone,
lava pine cones,
The urn that holds the remains of na,
Not dirt
Nor is it an island,
Hard peaches,
The Sun Drops were petrified.
One hears through the night
the breath of the pond,
Disturbed by the sea
The wheezing of fresh water.
The moment is late and the light turns green.
Sleeping in the jar
The vague body of the wine
It's a darker and cooler sun.
The roses of the depths are here
It was one that was lit on the seabed
A candlestick with a slight pink vein.
On the shore, the sun extinguishes it,
Pale chalk lace
It was as if desire were operated by death.
Sulfur yellow cliffs,
Tall grim stone.
You're by my side.
Your mind is black and gold.
Extend a hand
It is to gather a cluster of intact truth.
Below, between the rocks that burst out of Mars
A sea of arms
Come and go.
vertigo. The light slammed forward with its own head.
I look at your face,
I looked down into the abyss:
Morality is transparent.
Urn of Nazang Bones: Paradise:
We are rooted in knots
Among men and women, in the buried mother
Unopened mouth.
That's in the territory of the dead
sustain
A garden of incest trees.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="250" > like a person listening to the rain</h1>
Listen to me like a man listening to the rain,
Not focused, not distracted,
Light footsteps, thin light rain
The water that becomes air, the air that becomes time,
The day is still leaving,
But the night must come,
The mist is shaped
At the corner of the corner,
Time is set
At the bend in this pause,
You don't have to listen to hear what I'm saying
Eyes open inwards, facial features
All awake and asleep,
It was raining, the light footsteps, the murmuring of syllables,
Air and water, words without weight:
What we were and are now,
Days and years, this moment,
Time without weight and heavy sorrow,
The wet asphalt is shining,
The steaming mist rises and walks away,
The night unfolds and looks at me,
You are you and your mist-steaming body,
Thou shalt and your face of the night,
You and your hair, the lightning that is unhurried,
You crossed the street and came into my forehead,
The footsteps of water swept over my eyes.
The asphalt is shining, you cross the streets,
This is the mist wandering in the night,
It's a good night's sleep in your bed,
This is the surge of the waves in your breath,
Your watery fingers wet my forehead,
Your fiery fingers burn my eyes,
Your airy fingers open the eyelids of time,
A glimpse of the sight and the spring of revival,
Years have passed, and the time has returned,
Can you hear your footsteps in the next room?
Not here, not there: you're in another
Become now in time to hear them,
Listen to the footsteps of time,
The Creator of the place where there is no weight, no place,
Listen to the rain rushing on the terrace,
Now the night is even more night in the bushes,
Lightning has nestled among the leaves,
A restless garden drifting - enter,
Your shadow covers this page.
Focus on reading and sleeping, poetic inhabitation
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Facing the sea, look for light with black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "giving voice to grassroots poets" as its mission and carries forward the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of the truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, and the spiritual pleasure of poetry. He has published a collection of poems co-authored by poets, "Spring Warm Blossoms of Reading Sleeping Poems" and "Grass Long Warblers Flying in Reading Sleeping Poems".