Las cinco estaciones del poeta/The Five Seasons of the Poet

 

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.