Oda a las patatas fritas
Chisporrotea
en el aceite
hirviendo
la alegría
del mundo:
las patatas
fritas
entran
en el sartén
como nevadas
plumas
de cisne matutino
y salen
semidoradas por el crepitante
ámbar de las olivas.
El ajo
les añade
su terrenal fragancia,
la pimienta,
polen que atravesó los arrecifes,
y
vestidas
de nuevo
con traje de marfil, llenan el plato
con la repetición de su abundancia
y su sabrosa sencillez de tierra.
Ode to french fries
What sizzles
in boiling
oil
is the world's
pleasure:
French fries
go
into the pan
like the morning swan's
feathers
and emerge
half-golden from the olive's
crackling amber.
Garlic
lends them
its earthly aroma,
its spice,
its pollen that braved the reefs.
Then,
dressed
anew
in ivory fruits, they fill our plates
with repeated abundance
and the delicious simplicity of the soil.
Ode to the Waterfall
ResponderEliminarThe world's joy
is spluttering,
sizzling in olive oil.
Potatoes
to be fried
enter the skillet,
snowy wings
of a morning swan —
and they leave
half-braised in gold,
gift of the crackling amber
of olives.
Garlic
embellishes the potato
with its earthy perfume,
and the pepper
is pollen that has traveled
beyond the reefs,
and so
freshly
dressed
in a marbled suit,
plates are filled
with the echoes of potatoey abundance:
delicious simplicity of the earth.
Translated by Maria Jacketti