Poesía en Inglés
Francisco Azuela, was born in León City, Guanajuato,
México, in 1948. He is the grandson of Mariano
Azuela, first novelist of the Mexican Revolution. He studied
at the Universities of Guanajuato, Iberoamericana, UNAM and Panamericana
of Mexico City and in the Complutense of Madrid and Laval in
Québec. Mr. Azuela is a member of the General
Society of Writers of Mexico, Ordinary Member, and Member of
the Panamerican Counsel of CISAC and Member of the International
He was a diplomat in the Mexican Embassies in Costa Rica and
Honduras (1973-1983) and was decorated with the Order of the
Central American Liberator FRANCISCO MORAZAN, rank of Official,
by the Honduran Government. He was a candidate of the Honduran
Academy of Language at the International Literary Prize CENVANTES
of Spain in 1981.
He has published:
El Maldicionero (Universidad
Nacional Autónoma de Honduras, 3ª.ed.,1981)
El Tren de Fuego (Instituto
de la Cultura del Estado de Guanajuato, 1993)
La Parole Ardente, edición
bilingüe (John Donne & Cie., France, 1993)
Son las Cien de la Tarde
(Instituto de la Cultura del Estado de Guanajuato, 1996)
Ángel del Mar de mis Sueños
(Centro Cultural Internacional El Cóndor de los Andes-Águila
Azteca, A.C., 2000).
The Hands of Che
For poets Giovana Mulas and Gabriel Impaglione
whith my timeless friendship.
Translated by the poet Reynaldo Marcos Padua
From the unpublished book:
Cordillera Real de los Andes
Late, I ve not arrived, Commander,
to salute your name
of great a history in America
where we all fit.
I live in the house next door
where your hands lay hidden in Bolivia;
every morning I put mine over
that brick and stone wall
to greet you.
In the starry night of October
I see the luminous flight of a red condor
above the Royal Cordillera of the Andes
beneath the Andean Cross
I can see your hands and death mask
flying over Time.
From the Nancahuazu Cannon
your fighters and commanders accompany you,
those who felt the soil
of the Incahuasi monuntain range,
and drank the forest thickness
from the river of the Yacunday Creek.
Those buried in Choreti
behind the brick furnaces,
and those lost in Alto Seco
and in the San Lorenzo River
where Tania still strolls
At 13:30 of that a black Sunday
October the 8th of 1967,
Your voice was heard:
Dont kill me, I give up, Im Che,
worthier alive than dead!
They who killed you,
who cut you off in pieces,
travelers of the darker side of history,
They seeded in Valle Grande
and in Quebrada del Yuro
the blood of those who lit our history.
Commander of America
sad wing of the morning winds
the sun cuts across your horizon,
your blood shed was not in vain.
I still think about that formol flask
transcending a full rain of hopes.
Here, they made you a heroe,
they made you fatherland
for you planted the way of stars.
You are the motherland,
America the homeland.
of dark creeks and darks paths
where your memories
opened onto life.
with fraternal embrace
today I also greet you.
You are triumphant,
we all triumphant with you.
Your hands have traveled
To rendevous with the remaining
of your aching body,
Americas live monument,
comrade of time and of the dawn
in which arises your cicatrized soul.
La Paz, Bolivia May 14, 2006