Días con Simic. Lugares opresivos donde habla una voz insomne. Páginas sin embargo susurrantes, casi iba a decir luminosas. Muchos de sus poemas
tienen como contexto alguna catástrofe, no natural sino humana. La opresión es uno de sus asuntos. La fugitiva o memorable belleza es otro. Su humor -constante y punzante- no condesciende habitualmente a la amargura.
En este poema, por ejemplo, de una
ironía tan delicada y definitiva que mejor lo dejo como está.
Empires
My grandmother prophesied the end
of your empires, O fools!
She was ironing. The radio was on.
The earth trembled beneath our feet.
One of your heroes was giving a speech.
"Monster", she called him.
There were cheers and gun salutes for the monster.
"I could kill him with my own hands",
She announced to me.
There was no need to. They were all
Going to the devil any day now.
"Don't go blabbering about this to anyone",
She warned me.
And pulled my ear to make sure I understood.
