Solo/Alone

 Estoy solo

al interior

de tu silencio.

Repito tus palabras,

como si rimadas,

compusieran esa canción,

que no dejo de tararear,

en tu nombre.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

 Alone

I am alone

inside

your silence.

I repeat your words

as if, in rhyme,

they composed that song

I cannot stop humming,

in your name.

Son tiempos inciertos/They are uncertain times

¿A quién perdona el buen pastor,

a la oveja o al lobo?

Son tiempos inciertos, nadie nace

con los ojos abiertos,

para ver cómo el mundo permanece

ciego ante tantos muertos.

2

¿Lázaro los pondrá a caminar en el desierto?

Las voces continúan mudas dispuestas,

a hacerse eco de los muertos.

La vida está en camino esperando

al caminante y permanece de pie

donde la tierra vuelve a producir frutos.

3

¿Solo a mí la bestia ataca?

Sin resguardo la piel de oveja desnuda

el alma deja y bala el cordero

por los filosos cuchillos dispuestos todos

los comensales en una misma mesa,

servilleta en manos, descorchan botellas,

se dan la mano el aceite y el vinagre,

aquí no ha pasado nada.

Rolando Gabrielli2026©

1

Whom does the good shepherd forgive,

the sheep or the wolf?

These are uncertain times; no one is born

with eyes open

to see how the world remains

blind before so many dead.

2

Will Lazarus make them walk in the desert?

The voices remain mute, ready

to echo the dead.

Life is on its way, waiting

for the wanderer, and stands upright

where the earth bears fruit again.

3

Is it only me the beast attacks?

Without shelter, the sheep’s bare skin

lays the soul exposed, and the lamb bleats

for the sharpened knives set by all

the diners at the same table,

napkins in hand, uncorking bottles,

oil and vinegar shake hands—

nothing has happened here.

¿Y si no escribo el poema?/What if I don’t write the poem?

 ¿Y si no escribo el poema,

lo canto, lo grito al mundo?

La poesía es el silencio,

la palabra en la garganta,

escrita en un árbol,

es tierra, agua, río inagotable,

vida.

No dejo desoñar con tantas cosas

y no veo por qué no,

si todo lo creado está para disfrutarlo.

El poema no es la excepción,

viaja en el río incontestable,

inconfesable de la palabra.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

What if I don’t write the poem?

What if I don’t write the poem—

what if I sing it, cry it out to the world?

Poetry is silence,

the word in the throat,

written upon a tree;

it is earth, water, an unending river,

life.

I do not cease to dream so many things,

and I see no reason why not,

if all that is created is there to be enjoyed.

The poem is no exception;

it travels in the undeniable river,

the unconfessable current of the word.

Hoy es tu día, muchacho/Today is your day, boy.

 

Hoy es tu día, muchacho,

tú, el que en cualquier parte del mundo,

respiras en una fábrica o en un taller,

reparas un techo, repartes la comida

o la correspondencia,

pones alegría y belleza en un jardín,

madrugas haciendo pan para el día,

hablas con  un torno  las palabras

que el oficio  te enseña.

Tú, muchacha, eres la luz del alba

que te acompaña a la faena diaria,

en la oficina, la industria, la banca,

donde compartes la enseñanza del mediodía

en el aula de clases enseñando qué es la patria,

como se le ama, enciende su pasión,

se defiende con sabiduría.

Trabajadores del mundo, no se rindan 

ante ningún desafío, por extraordinario

que sea o el riesgo que representa,

la verdadera libertad no es fruto de un día.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Today is your day, young man,

you who, anywhere in the world,

breathe inside a factory or a workshop,

mend a roof, deliver food

or letters,

bring joy and beauty to a garden,

rise before dawn to bake the day’s bread,

speak with a lathe the words

your craft has taught you.

You, young woman, are the light of dawn

that walks beside you to your daily labor,

in the office, the industry, the bank,

where you share the midday lesson

in the classroom, teaching what a homeland is,

how it is loved, how its passion is kindled,

how it is defended with wisdom.

Workers of the world, do not surrender

before any challenge, however extraordinary

or whatever risk it may bear—

true freedom is not the fruit of a single day.

Curiosidades de Abril/Curiosities of April

1 

La sabiduría

del encuentro,

es vernos,

sin ser vistos.

Ventaja del azar

y sus misterios.

2

Pensar,

es importante.

Vivir ,

lo es más.

3

Lo que no debe

faltar en la mesa,

día a día,

en la vida,

es la poesía.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

1

The wisdom

of encounter

is to be ourselves,

without being seen.

An advantage of chance

and its mysteries.

2

To think

is important.

To live

is more so.

3

What must not

be missing from the table,

day by day,

in life,

is poetry.

De Sur a Norte (Canción del olvido)/From South to North (Song of Forgetting)

 Ya no voy al Norte,

la distancia crece,

más que el olvido,

te aleja del camino,

como decírtelo,

no tengo planes,

es muy absurdo todo,

nada tiene sentido.

No me esperes,

mi sueño, no es tu sueño,

soy del Sur, del Sur vengo,

siempre volveré al Sur.

Mi horizonte no es tu horizonte

y mi destino es como el vino,

nacer y volver a nacer.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

I no longer go North,

the distance grows,

more than forgetting,

it pulls you away from the road.

How can I tell you,

I have no plans,

everything is so absurd,

nothing makes sense.

Don’t wait for me,

my dream is not your dream,

I am from the South, from the South I come,

I will always return to the South.

My horizon is not your horizon

and my destiny is like wine,

to be born and to be born again.

La suerte del silencio/The fortune of silence

 La suerte del silencio

es que no tiene pasado,

presente, ni futuro,

solo eternidad.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The fortune of silence

is that it has no past,

no present, nor future—

only eternity.

Ciber viajero/Cyber ​​traveler

 Pequeño perverso,

charlatán,

te pavoneas

impune, anónimo,

con tu tormentita

de excrementos,

astuto viajero

del ciber engaño.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Little pervert,

charlatan,

you strut around

with impunity, anonymous,

with your little storm

of excrement,

cunning traveler

of cyber deception.

El sueño que nos sueña/The dream that dreams us

 El sueño que nos sueña,

seguirá soñándonos

y el soñador que lo sueña,

nunca abandonará su destino,

que no es otro,

que ser fiel a su imaginación.

Rolando Gabrielli2026 

The dream that dreams us,

will go on dreaming us,

and the dreamer who dreams it

will never abandon his destiny,

which is none other

than to remain faithful to his imagination.

La muerte/Death

 La muerte

busca un lugar

donde enterrar

su misterio.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Death

seeks a place

to bury

its mystery.

No hablen de los muertos/Do not speak of the dead

No hablen de los muertos,

son espíritus sagrados inmortales,

sus pasos ahora son signos sigilosos

de las tipografías que los precedieron

en la aventura de la palabra

que siempre compartieron,

aún, como ahora, en tiempos de silencio,

sus voces se siguen escuchando.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Do not speak of the dead,
they are sacred, immortal spirits,
their footsteps are now silent signs
of the typographies that preceded them
in the adventure of the word
they always shared,
even now, in times of silence,
their voices can still be heard.

Cervantes&Shakespeare/Shakespeare&Cervantes

Buenos días Miguel

Buenos días Guillermo

Bienvenidos a la inmortalidad este 23 de marzo del 2026. Han pasado cuatro siglos y 10 años, y los seguimos celebrando, conmemorando su obra, partida y homenajeando el Día del Libro, ese objeto mágico que nos hace soñar con aventuras únicas, irrepetibles, inigualables. Estamos en una Era, que volvería loco nuevamente al Quijote y, el melancólico Hamlet, obsesionado por la verdad, la muerte y la traición, se sentiría a sus anchas en este siglo, comprobando que su duda era más que razonable.

Gracias Miguel de Cervantes y Saavedra, Gracias William Shakespeare, por tanta Humanidad.!!!

Good morning, Miguel

Good morning, Guillermo

Welcome to immortality on this March 23, 2026. Four centuries and ten years have passed, and we continue to celebrate you, to commemorate your work and your departure, and to honor Book Day—that magical object that makes us dream of unique, unrepeatable, incomparable adventures. We are living in an era that would once again drive Don Quixote mad, and the melancholic Hamlet, obsessed with truth, death, and betrayal, would feel completely at home in this century, discovering that his doubt was more than reasonable.

Thank you, Miguel de Cervantes y Saavedra. Thank you, William Shakespeare, for so much Humanity.!!!

La libertad/Freedom

La libertad

es esclava

de sí misma,

si no es

igual para todos.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Freedom

is a slave

to itself,

if it is not

equal for all.

Un siglo lleno de metáforas /A Century of Metaphors

La historia es un detalle,

 un siglo lleno de metáforas,

oscuras , ciegas,

delirantes profecías,

amenazas apocalípticas,

fanatismo sin dios ni ley,

fin de los tiempos, repiten

y al mismo  tiempo,

promueven viajes al infierno,

tantas veces invocado,

como una solución final

para los enemigos de siempre.

Todo fluye hacia un mismo

destino, aparentemente,

el bien y el mal se sonríen,

muchos se lavan las manos,

el futuro parece ser sombrío,

negros nubarrones

vaticinan mal tiempo.

Amanecerá y veremos.

Rolando Gabrielli

A Century of Metaphors

History is but a detail,

a century steeped in metaphors—

dark, unseeing,

delirious prophecies,

apocalyptic threats,

fanaticism without god or law.

“The end of times,” they echo,

and yet, at once,

they usher journeys into hell,

so often summoned,

as a final remedy

for the enemies of old.

All things seem to drift

toward a single fate;

good and evil share a smile,

many wash their hands.

The future leans toward shadow,

black clouds gather,

foretelling harsh weather.

Dawn will break—

and we shall see.

El bastón negro/The black cane

 El bastón negro

se acerca dócilmente,

como implorándome

que no de más

un paso en falso.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The black cane

draws near, gently,

as if imploring me

not to take

another false step.

La casa sola del hombre solo/The lonely house of the lonely man

La casa tiene solo un habitante

Es la persona más próxima a mí

Me acompaña a todas partes

Siento lo que él siente

Me hace preguntas en silencio

Ve lo que yo veo

Cuando riega los jardines de noche

la casa se siente más fresca

y como si yo lo hiciera

busca la luna en un cielo infinito

La casa  permanece casi en silencio

De alguna manera pienso, siento,

llego a hacerme la idea

que estoy ante mi Alter ego

Me seduce sobremanera

cuando piensa por mí

Es cautivante su aproximación

a los temas de interés mutuo

Vivir con este espejo móvil

el reflejo de lo probable e improbable

en el discutido terreno de la certeza

es compartir con el otro,

consigo mismo,

la ausencia, la atemporalidad 

de las palabras

El hombre solo en la casa,

solo piensa en el futuro

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The house has only one inhabitant

He is the person closest to me.

He accompanies me everywhere.

I feel what he feels.

He asks me questions in silence.

He sees what I see.

When he waters the gardens at night,

the house feels fresher—

as if I were the one doing it—

and he searches for the moon

in an infinite sky.

The house remains almost silent.

Somehow I think, I feel,

I come to believe

that I stand before my alter ego.

He deeply seduces me

when he thinks for me.

His way of approaching

matters of shared interest

is captivating.

To live with this moving mirror,

the reflection of the probable and improbable

in the contested ground of certainty,

is to share with the other—

with oneself—

the absence, the timelessness

of words.

The man alone in the house

thinks only of the future.

Los poetas se han quedado sin voz, la humanidad sin poesía/The poets have lost their voice; humanity has lost its poetry

 

https://letralia.com/ciudad-letralia/fechado-en-panama/2026/04/17/poetas-sin-voz/

https://muckrack.com/rolando-gabrielli

Poetry has almost always been a shooting star on the publishing horizon, yet it continues to occupy a secret, hidden, special corner in the hearts of its readers. It is difficult to find pages devoted to poets in the scarce literary supplements of newspapers. Poetry magazines have become objects of cult interest. Internet pages spread the word, but there is no lively, vibrant dialogue between authors and audiences. Some competitions, it is true, encourage and stimulate the more daring writers. It has become a genre for emotional survival, a kind of spiritual amulet in this mercantile, digital society, where life unfolds on autopilot. Poetry requires attention, a love of words, passion, curiosity, and above all, I would say, complicity. Poets have been left voiceless, and humanity without poetry. The facts do not contradict these words; they reaffirm them.

For a long time now, poets have not made the news; they do not speak out in the face of universal chaos and misery, even though poetry is an essentially humanistic genre—its very skin is humanity itself, its voice millennia-old, whose echoes still resound in the 21st century.

For publishers, publishing a poet is a high-risk economic venture, immediately and pragmatically classified as a loss of money and time. Poets have no audience, no platform; their stage is verbal clandestinity, as if the word itself had been proscribed and forgotten. It is more entertaining to waste time on a network, watch a movie, amuse oneself with a video game, chat endlessly, gamble in a casino, learn the rules of entrepreneurship, survive in this dystopian universe.

Poets such as Octavio Paz, Ernesto Cardenal, Neruda, Borges, Dalton, Benedetti, Parra, De Rokha, Bolaño, Oliverio Girondo, Gelman, Heraud, Cisneros, and so many others have disappeared from the scene, leaving poetry in a kind of aphonia. Bertolt Brecht left a formidable legacy for human commitment in any era, because humanity’s challenges repeat themselves cyclically. In his poem praising the indispensable person, he says:

There are men who fight for a day
and they are good. There are others who fight for a year
and are better. There are those who fight for many years
and are very good. But there are those who fight all their lives:
they are the indispensable ones.

The poem is well known, quoted, repeated, and has not lost its relevance—especially in volatile times.

The book, in general, is an object that may decorate a wall, but it is not part of people’s everyday lives, and it would be considered odd for someone to quote an author in a conversation or meeting—let alone a poet. Pulling out a book in a group, mentioning a philosopher, are things of the past. One must operate with programs and technologies, at the pace of algorithms, in the shortest possible time. Very soon, people with higher incomes will be able to buy their own personal robot that, in their free time, can recite a poem suited to the occasion.

Curiously, even people who have never been interested in reading poetry say in their daily lives—often marked by supreme banality—“this lacks poetry,” “it has no poetry,” “add some poetry to it.” It seems as though this kind of casual refrain were a reminder of the splendor, importance, and essential nature that poetry once had since time immemorial. Poetry is not the cherry on top.

This reflection, in these times when reading often becomes a heavy burden, arises from the fact that in the Chilean imagination—at least in my time—it was said that Chile is a country of poets. Not without reason: two Nobel Prize winners and dozens of extraordinary poets throughout its entire geography—nearly 4,500 kilometers of fine poetry. Mountain, maritime, desert, urban, social, popular poets—the full range of possible adjectives. This year, without going any further, 81 years after Gabriela Mistral received the Nobel Prize, a monument has been erected in her honor in Plaza Italia, the site that divides Santiago into north and south. The work of artists Mariana Silva and Norma Ramírez presides over that emblematic place for Chileans through “16 vertical steel prisms that combine images of the poet with excerpts from her poem ‘We Were All Going to Be Queens,’ one of the most well-known in her body of work.” There are mixed opinions about the piece; Gabriela was always immersed in controversy, and an anonymous critic even coined the following phrase in reference to the monument: “When politics fails, politicians resort to myth and poetry.”

Poetry seems to be a kind of cosmetic resource—at least it serves some purpose amid so much prosaic prose. This spontaneous note has emerged, unsurprisingly, after an interview with the Chilean National Poetry Prize winner of 2016, my friend Manuel Silva Acevedo, who at 83 tells us that he has knocked on the doors of various Chilean publishers; three refused him with different excuses about prior commitments. Silva Acevedo, with 60 years of poetic practice, a recognized body of work, and a hard-earned place in Chilean poetry, has wandered for months through the publishing market without reaching port. This is a stark example of the state of interest in poetry in Chile. The jury that awarded him described his work as a “key poetic presence in our literature, from his prophetic and multivalent poem Wolves and Sheep (1976),” as reported by Diego Quivira, the interviewer. “There are only 50 poems,” the poet notes, under the title Shards and Impertinences.

Marisol Vera, director of Editorial Cuarto Propio, puts it bluntly regarding the publication of poetry: “Publishing poetry in a country where every activity is expected to be profitable is extremely difficult, because poetry—even by renowned poets—does not generate economic returns.” Vera recalls that since the founding of Cuarto Propio in 1984, “the only (poetry) book that has covered its costs and generated income for the publishing house has been, in recent times, the work of Stella Díaz Varín.” I’m glad for the fiery Stella Díaz Varín, whom I met in the wild nights of Santiago’s bohemian scene, alongside Teillier, Barquero, Cárdenas, and Poli Délano.

Las palabras/The words

 Me fueron fieles,

no siempre,

y permanecieron

sin reproche,

con dignidad,

ausentes,

a veces,

persistentemente,

por demás

retraídas,

tal vez,

nunca perdidas

o sin voz

propia,

quizás próximas,

al silencio.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Were faithful to me,

not always,

yet they remained

without reproach,

with dignity—

absent,

at times,

persistently,

even overly withdrawn,

perhaps

never lost

nor without

a voice

of their own,

maybe close

to silence.

Q

Pessoa se acuarteló/Pessoa barricaded himself

 

Pessoa

se acuarteló

en sí mismo.

Hermético

hasta la sombra,

que era lo más

próximo a su vida.

Aún se le ve en fotografías

de la época caminando

por Lisboa dejando atrás

todo, principalmente,

así mismo.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Pessoa

barricaded himself

within himself.

Hermetic

even to his own shadow,

which was the closest

thing to his life.

He can still be seen

in photographs of the time,

walking through Lisbon,

leaving everything behind—

above all,

himself.