Estimados lectores, con el presente texto participo por primera vez en el Theinkwell poetry challenge / Week 8 patrocinado por el grupo @theinkwell, a quienes felicito por tan excelente iniciativa.
Si desean participar, aquí están las bases
Asha
Llevas el polvo del camino en tus pies casi descalzos,
y en tu erguida cabeza sostienes la vasija ancestral
donde llevas a casa el agua de lluvia que has recogido en el pozo.
Sobre tus negras trenzas, perfectamente tejidas,
te has puesto el enrollado paño de encendidos tonos
que definen el origen de tu estirpe.
Con tu vestido de estampas multicolores al viento,
y tus hermosos adornos de semillas, nácar y huesos,
vas cantando la fábula de la cebra y el conejo
que tu risueña madre te enseñó en swajili.
Pese a ser la mujer más pobre de tu pueblo,
de ser la más vulnerable ante el frenesí del fatuo varón y su vigor,
de sobrevivir a tiránicas auras y su inclemencia,
vas alegre, Asha, con tu amplia sonrisa de blanquísimos dientes,
porque has amamantado al primigenio hijo del mundo,
y segura estás de que él multiplicará tus genes y tus sueños.
Tú, hermosa madre, has embellecido todos los artículos de tu casa
trazando en ellos tu origen, tu historia, tus símbolos,
tus rituales, tus montañas y sus gemas, tus animales y su naturaleza.
Al son del tambor, el sol ardiente danza alrededor de tu piel, Asha.
Fuente
Asha
You carry the dust of the road on your feet almost barefoot,
and in your upright head you hold the ancestral vessel
where you take home the rainwater you've collected at the well.
On your black braids, perfectly woven,
you've put on the rolled-up, fiery-toned cloth
that define the origin of your lineage.
With your multicolored print dress in the wind,
and your beautiful decorations of seeds, mother-of-pearl and bones,
You're singing the fable of the zebra and the rabbit
that your laughing mother taught you in Swahili.
Despite being the poorest woman in your village,
of being the most vulnerable to the frenzy of the fatuous male and his vigour,
to survive tyrannical auras and their harshness,
you're happy, Asha, with your wide, white-toothed smile,
because you have nursed the first son of the world,
and you're sure he'll multiply your genes and your dreams.
You, beautiful mother, have embellished every item in your house
carving in them your origin, your history, your symbols,
your rituals, your mountains and their gems, your animals and their nature.
To the sound of the drum, the burning sun dances around your skin, Asha.
Traducción: DeepL
A mother continent living in the skin of a woman.
I liked your poem, @alidamaria.
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En este poema vi reflejada muchas mujeres del mundo! Porque ser mujer no tiene que ver con países, sino con la misma naturaleza! Hermoso poema y suerte, @alidamaria!