La estación cero es el silencio,
no pareciera tener principio ni fin,
una moneda con una misma cara
capaz de alterar cualquier decisión,
inalterable al parecer del observador.
La primera estación es la del olvido
en pleno invierno bajo el ejercicio
de la soledad de la poesía.
La número dos de las estaciones,
el tiempo la convoca en el llamativo
Otoño de las palabras que caen como hojas
sin otro sentido que encontrar nuevas palabras.
La primavera nace como una estación
que no deja de sorprendernos con el encanto
indiscutido de su belleza innegable,
de pacíficas aguas, placenteros aromas.
El verano, renacimiento absoluto
de lo nuevo y desconocido, inaugural,
un tiempo para el placer sin fin,
estación del ocio y lujo de los días soleados,
vocales y consonantes en un mismo paisaje,
nada cambiará lo vivido.
Rolando Gabrielli2026
The zero season is silence—
it has no origin, no after,
a coin stamped with a single face,
able to bend any choice,
immutable beneath the watcher’s gaze.
The first season is forgetting,
deep winter, practiced
in the disciplined solitude of poetry.
The second season arrives when time calls it forth:
a flamboyant autumn
where words fall like leaves,
seeking no meaning
but the birth of other words.
Spring emerges as the season
that never stops astonishing us—
the unquestioned spell of its beauty,
waters at peace,
air heavy with pleasure.
Summer: total rebirth,
of the new, the unnamed, the inaugural.
Time opens into endless pleasure—
a season of leisure,
the luxury of sun-drenched days,
vowels and consonants sharing one horizon.
Nothing will undo what has been lived.
The Poet’s Five Seasons
Zero:
silence before the mouth opens,
after it closes.
A coin with one face only,
spinning inside choice,
untouched by the eye that names it.
One:
forgetting.
Winter rehearses its cold
in the strict solitude of poems,
where memory loosens its grip.
Two:
time calls, and autumn answers—
words fall, unshelled,
leaves without meaning,
driven only by the hunger
to become other words.
Three:
spring breaks open.
Beauty without defense, without argument.
Water rests.
Air breathes sweetness.
Everything trembles, alive.
Four:
summer—
absolute return.
The new. The unnamed. The first time.
Pleasure without measure,
idle hours blazing in sunlight,
vowels and consonants melting
into a single, burning landscape.
Nothing revises what has been lived.
Nothing.
