Writings to Bogotá- Colombia
Writings to Bogotá D.C. - Colombia
Written by: Francisco Urrea Pérez | Translation: Patricia Oliver Martinez
Poem to Bogota | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Getting into the Transmilenio.
How much I like that name!
Corals in their domain,
penetrating the arteries
of the noble Bogota.
The Patrona Bogota.
The Diva of all and a few.
The one of the callenígenas.
Cachacos and Rolls.
The Bogota of bohemian chambers
and dancing scarves.
Bogotá without doors or windows.
Passing Bogotá
with remains at each step.
The one with grizzled hills
and filipichines skyscrapers.
And the old Bogotá of La Candelaria.
La Candelaria of derisive laughter
who knows everything.
The concealer with a memory.
The one that keeps our steps
within its cobbled streets.
Passing Bogotá
with remains at each step.
The one with grizzled hills
and filipichines skyscrapers.
And the old Bogotá of La Candelaria.
La Candelaria of derisive laughter
who knows everything.
The concealer with a memory.
The one that keeps our steps
within its cobbled streets.
La Candelaria of tablecloths, hot wines,
sheets and dawns.
The cold Bogota of suns and winters.
The Bogota we enjoy today,
as back then, under the rain.
sheets and dawns.
The cold Bogota of suns and winters.
The Bogota we enjoy today,
as back then, under the rain.
A Coffee | Francisco Urrea Pérez
To dye the soul with its flavour.
A coffee to come together.
A coffee, in an old coffee-shop of the old Candelaria.
A coffee with a flavour
of narrow streets and scarves.
Soft coffee from a Colombia in love.
A black and strong coffee; steaming hot,
right next to a photographic camera.
A coffee to embrace the word.
And the scent of coffee, all its scent,
in the beautiful Bogota Cachaca.
in the beautiful Bogota Cachaca.
City Lady | Francisco Urrea Pérez
They fill with inscrutable reality and fantasy.
That woman, unbelievable and feminine, is drawn at every step.
The city lady smiles after coffee.
Torrid enthusiasm in those eyes that do not look at me.
The ever alive Bogota.
The rolita of streets and curtains,
and the feeling of books and tables.
They fill with inscrutable reality and fantasy.
That woman, unbelievable and feminine, is drawn at every step.
The city lady smiles after coffee.
Torrid enthusiasm in those eyes that do not look at me.
The ever alive Bogota.
The rolita of streets and curtains,
and the feeling of books and tables.
Poetry House | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Clay on its roofs.
imposing massifs in their eaves.
The aroma of coffee in its cobbled corridors.
Invisible hands on wooden rails.
The chatting of the living poets.
Amusing images of the poets,
hang from the old walls of the room.
Indifferent and lonely the sentinel´s kepis
ages on the old table.
The verse breaks the millennium,
where gone poets, with the rumour of life,
play with water from the house source.
Silence is the eloquence of words that
beat with rhythm, the carnal silt
of excited souls.
Clay on its roofs.
imposing massifs in their eaves.
The aroma of coffee in its cobbled corridors.
Invisible hands on wooden rails.
The chatting of the living poets.
Amusing images of the poets,
hang from the old walls of the room.
Indifferent and lonely the sentinel´s kepis
ages on the old table.
The verse breaks the millennium,
where gone poets, with the rumour of life,
play with water from the house source.
Silence is the eloquence of words that
beat with rhythm, the carnal silt
of excited souls.
Candelaria | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Through the cobbled streets of Bogota,
of extinct candles,
my passions penetrate the old room
of your foreign heart.
You are afraid of fanning the flame.
You are frightened by the ashes you walk through.
Through the cobbled streets of Bogota,
of extinct candles,
my passions penetrate the old room
of your foreign heart.
You are afraid of fanning the flame.
You are frightened by the ashes you walk through.
Abyss | Francisco Urrea Pérez
On the edge of the thalamus
and time nothing happens.
and time nothing happens.
Hours pass by,
pass and do not pass.
What a sunken night.
What a tank.
Soon the alarm will go off,
at five in the morning,
awakening me from the abyss.
And I go back to bed,
just for a few minutes,
while the aroma of coffee lifts me up.
Fortunately,
the shower
the orange juice
and, again,
the Bogota of the soul.
pass and do not pass.
What a sunken night.
What a tank.
Soon the alarm will go off,
at five in the morning,
awakening me from the abyss.
And I go back to bed,
just for a few minutes,
while the aroma of coffee lifts me up.
Fortunately,
the shower
the orange juice
and, again,
the Bogota of the soul.
Inventory | Francisco Urrea Pérez
We invent everything.
We invent
each other
in solemn laughter.
We invent
that no one waits for us.
We invent
the wine cocktail and the liquor
for the revelry and the stays.
We invent
the beer in the old and dirty canteens,
sanctuary of blades.
We invent
strollers in the wee hours of the night,
daredevils,
through Bogota´s noctambulant streets.
We invent everything.
Everything, and just for us,
with the passion of the Tahúr.
We invent everything.
We invent
each other
in solemn laughter.
We invent
that no one waits for us.
We invent
the wine cocktail and the liquor
for the revelry and the stays.
We invent
the beer in the old and dirty canteens,
sanctuary of blades.
We invent
strollers in the wee hours of the night,
daredevils,
through Bogota´s noctambulant streets.
We invent everything.
Everything, and just for us,
with the passion of the Tahúr.
Callenígenas
Written by: Francisco Urrea Pérez | Translation: Patricia Oliver Martinez
Street dweller | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Life is an early, expanded and ruthless sunset.
It's an album of melancholic twilights.
An existence without footprints but with a hope in bankruptcy.
Inhabiting the streets under the magical spectacle of those same streets that change with the hours.
There are memories, maybe a tear that shelters him and a: I was also loved, and I am still human.
Life is an early, expanded and ruthless sunset.
It's an album of melancholic twilights.
An existence without footprints but with a hope in bankruptcy.
Inhabiting the streets under the magical spectacle of those same streets that change with the hours.
There are memories, maybe a tear that shelters him and a: I was also loved, and I am still human.
Wandering Gaze | Francisco Urrea Pérez
It is the stream of the already dry river where the soul is washed.
Gloomy drought that burns all hope.
Howling there, the wandering gaze.
Gloomy drought that burns all hope.
Howling there, the wandering gaze.
Resonances | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Over there, where the soul is pierced.
Images, voices, smells and tastes are poured, all grateful.
The aroma of fresh coffee and then, that sweet voice, that calls for breakfast, lunch or dinner.
They are disconsolate echoes spread in despair and fed by hunger and misery.
The aroma of fresh coffee and then, that sweet voice, that calls for breakfast, lunch or dinner.
They are disconsolate echoes spread in despair and fed by hunger and misery.
Passing by | Francisco Urrea Pérez
I have hunger wounded by bread and death.
My hunger is thirsty and my thirst rummages on the cold floor for charity.
Humans pass by and as inhumans pass by again.
My hunger is thirsty and my thirst rummages on the cold floor for charity.
Humans pass by and as inhumans pass by again.
They call me | Francisco Urrea Pérez
They are voices that come from the inside.
Echoes, songs, whispers.
Sand shapes gloat on a clear beach on the way to schizophrenia.
Maybe it is that my sandy voice,
is a stone that breaks my existence.
Echoes, songs, whispers.
Sand shapes gloat on a clear beach on the way to schizophrenia.
Maybe it is that my sandy voice,
is a stone that breaks my existence.
Street Hug | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Closing your fist tightly to hit existence. The life that I live without you and without me.
My blow, like a clapper, is a bell stroke, a ring for those who cannot hear me, you.
My closed hand is a robe within which I shelter you so that you do not fade away from my memory.
I do not want to forget you. I cannot forget you. I already forgot about myself.
I only have you left and to you I cling myself. Hold me strong, my street, my dearest friend, always you.
My blow, like a clapper, is a bell stroke, a ring for those who cannot hear me, you.
My closed hand is a robe within which I shelter you so that you do not fade away from my memory.
I do not want to forget you. I cannot forget you. I already forgot about myself.
I only have you left and to you I cling myself. Hold me strong, my street, my dearest friend, always you.
Tatters | Francisco Urrea Pérez
It is his tattered shade that keeps his rags.
Clothes corroded by other skins and other fantasies.
Crawling through the streets, towards themselves, just like that,
as if tearing lives to knit rags.
Clothes corroded by other skins and other fantasies.
Crawling through the streets, towards themselves, just like that,
as if tearing lives to knit rags.
Rawness | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Pedantic strokes in the dirty game of life, turned into steps hurt by poverty.
Steps that others forgot, that we threw away and the passers-by consider none of their business.
These are the steps thrown in the street, the street as its jailer and the street as its sole companion.
Steps that others forgot, that we threw away and the passers-by consider none of their business.
These are the steps thrown in the street, the street as its jailer and the street as its sole companion.
Looks | Francisco Urrea Pérez
I will cover myself with that look that undresses me, and we will exchange disgusts.
The one I produce on you and the one you produce on me.
Each one on his shore and, in the middle, each one with his life experience.
We do not have to understand each other and do not get God involved in this dispute.
Without neglecting politicians, clerics and revolutionaries; atheists devouring atheists and believers devouring believers, in other words, humans devouring humans, if we can call ourselves human at all.
The one I produce on you and the one you produce on me.
Each one on his shore and, in the middle, each one with his life experience.
We do not have to understand each other and do not get God involved in this dispute.
Without neglecting politicians, clerics and revolutionaries; atheists devouring atheists and believers devouring believers, in other words, humans devouring humans, if we can call ourselves human at all.
Collapsed | Francisco Urrea Pérez
They go unhappy like a burning ballon, rigth after smoking moons and summers.
Thirsty of almost everything and full of vague thicknesses, they leave their skin exposed over the vast concrete, with their frayed souls by contempt.
They collapse slow and nauseating on the way to the morgue.
Thirsty of almost everything and full of vague thicknesses, they leave their skin exposed over the vast concrete, with their frayed souls by contempt.
They collapse slow and nauseating on the way to the morgue.
Street and Lodge | Francisco Urrea Pérez
The street is a hostel and it is also in transit.
It has alley holes instead of doors and windows.
Mist for sheets.
Hard and elongated thalamus of asphalt and concrete.
Cold street lights, distant, sad and of undecipherable looks.
The street accommodates you while the dawn breaks, knowing that it is just a street and not a home.
It has alley holes instead of doors and windows.
Mist for sheets.
Hard and elongated thalamus of asphalt and concrete.
Cold street lights, distant, sad and of undecipherable looks.
The street accommodates you while the dawn breaks, knowing that it is just a street and not a home.
Against the tide | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Tasty would be my own vulture once I embrace The Lady Altiva.
Devour my entrails, before dissecting my corpse, those with the license to desecrate humanities and dismember the dead with saw and scalpel.
But those assassins in white coat should also tremble... since the scalpel and saw that they cut others with, will be the same they will be dismembered with.
Devour my entrails, before dissecting my corpse, those with the license to desecrate humanities and dismember the dead with saw and scalpel.
But those assassins in white coat should also tremble... since the scalpel and saw that they cut others with, will be the same they will be dismembered with.
Dignity | Francisco Urrea Pérez
With this age without wind
I live the ultimate age
worthy of my indigence
and proud not to hide it.
I grind time
and I rejoice in this situation
giving my back to the door that avoids me.
I live the ultimate age
worthy of my indigence
and proud not to hide it.
I grind time
and I rejoice in this situation
giving my back to the door that avoids me.
Do not Ignore Me | Francisco Urrea Pérez
My feet are barefoot, as bare as my illusions.
Look at me and give me at least your ragged smile.
Invisible Cities | Francisco Urrea Pérez
Apprehend the metropolis, its streets, its facades and its dream.
Live those moments and capture them under the lens of a camera for the sake of art and memories.
Behold, the traveler. Sheltered by music and wine. Excited by the city of all times.
The city allows itself to be seen and heard, shown, adorned, let itself be loved by all, by the globetrotters, by those who live in its core.
There is a daily destiny, forged and survived in its history, in its people, in walking, in the memory of postcards and monuments, of coffees, letters and prosceniums, in the feeling of graffiti or in the silence of those who are far away and evoke their own nostalgia, the outlaw or the traveller.
Live those moments and capture them under the lens of a camera for the sake of art and memories.
Behold, the traveler. Sheltered by music and wine. Excited by the city of all times.
The city allows itself to be seen and heard, shown, adorned, let itself be loved by all, by the globetrotters, by those who live in its core.
There is a daily destiny, forged and survived in its history, in its people, in walking, in the memory of postcards and monuments, of coffees, letters and prosceniums, in the feeling of graffiti or in the silence of those who are far away and evoke their own nostalgia, the outlaw or the traveller.
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