The novel has also been translated into Italian. In fiction he has written Alejandro y los Pescadores de Tancay, which was translated into English and received the International Book Award at the New York Book Fair in 2009. Among Professor Muñoz’s works related to literature are Sons of the Wind and Storyteller: Mario Vargas Llosa Between Civilization and Barbarism. He is Centennial Professor Emeritus of Swarthmore College where he taught social theory and Latin American Culture. He earned a PhD in sociology at the University of Pennsylvania. There he was a student and labor organizer and a radio and print journalist. Selected and edited by Eli Urbina MontenegroīRAULIO MUÑOZ was born in Chimbote, Peru. I hope they don’t celebrate life by remembering death Let them hear me in the silence of their hours You, my immortal victim, my bona fide galaxy, kingly tear. I ought to go down to the bottom of the sun.ĭecorated in shields and poisoned swords. I’ve come undone and why matters to no one. You love all the precious false doves that plunge down at your feet. River of Emotion I have been/ You, mighty Eagle, king of North America. Me daughter of the commoners’ ossuary, on Calle Guadalupe, Me, poor, brown, coal for your skin/ You, the kingdom’s raptor. There, dead, lie I beneath the wheels/ no one could clench a doubt against you. “And keep you in the rear of your affection, We crank the gramophone and pay to watch you cry. To seduce children with no serpents or bumper cars.
#Tuyo y mio compositor tv
The rectangular voice of a TV reporter bakes petals and sprigs into stone, Spectating, a task that goes hand in hand with your eloquence That death brings sadness is another lie. We’ll celebrate over the graves, you’ll see, Turn the lever and descend till you take pity on my fright.ĭo not attempt to shuck the absurd flower of my doubts about the Fatherland. What neverending vice makes you master of our fear? No embroidered skirts, or limes that bleed.Īrgentine masks hide their devotion to the black spirits of the sea.Ġ0000The moth-eaten blouse of a father opening and closing his mouth like a frog,Īn ear of corn brought from Cajamarca, desiccated.
I bump into clouds, couches, the Chinese chest that survived shipwreck The bottle of Cusqueña is unchilled and will not inebriate.įear in every step draws me toward your voice. I would like for you to perform amputationsįor you to slay the faun spying on us, hereīetween rooted moons and salads of hypnotized I longed, a little, for a dialogue with the unknown, I was waiting for our strange love, for you to tuck scales in your pockets,Ī surgeon of doubt is a good man, I’ve lied: The rooster will sing again when the stone flies. I smiled unoffended, because in Peru nobody Between the cherry tree, the sakura, the lotus flower, and the olive bush:Īnd all I remember is what you said about my aunt:
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