The colour of words

POEMS BY RAUL OSCAR IFRAN OVER THE PICTURES OF PETER BRUEGHEL

PUNTA ALTA. BUENOS AIRES. ARGENTINA

I-

The man looked beyond the things

with his own light shining in the middle of the dark ages

his brush is even now a bird that flaps the wings

over the human comedy in a timeless stage.

 II

peasant, oh! the wind and the rain

have worked the wrinkles on your face
the few joys are mixed up with many pains
from the back of your eyes blinks an eternal blaze.
 III

the clouds reigns at sky, the cold wind blows

My feet walks on the soft plain of snow

the children play, the moms picks up the firewood

the winter´s ship sails by the sea of my blood

 IV

The distant ocean sings a melancholic tune

the forest tries to catch the last birds

the man is sowing the seeds which are all his fortune

I can´t trap the magical scene in the web of my words.

 V

Jesus, we come down on our knees

to worship your greatness, to appreciate your sacrifice

You are the best that our human eyes can see

you make the seeds grow in the rock and burn the ice.
 VI

A weeding party in the countryside

the red wine runs, the glad music sounds

the simple people has a good time all around

Is there anybody going to know the dreams of the bride?

 VII

The innocents are beheaded by the cruel knives

here and there they are looking for a little king

the wind scatters the tears of mothers when twilight arrives

A lot of angels beat their bloody wings.

 VIII

The farmers are working under the torrid sun

the shadow of tree is like a touch from paradise

The golden spikes grow as the hours run

The work will be over when the moonlight rises

 IX

The armies of death advance

Noone will escape, noone will be saved

Nor poets, nor ladies, nor knights have a chance

when the day ends they will rest in the grave