Sofía Buchuck-Gil
I am a woman remembering I am water, they also know me as Yacu, Ejekal, Ushnu, snow goddess, Yacumama. My steps whistle with the winds, the sun, the waves, and nothingness, until I quench your thirst, your desperate need to find purity again, in the language of a thousand waterfalls renewing us with their essence.
PINTANDO BAJO LA LLUVIA
Pinto tus cabellos negros y mojados,
Noche de América obstinada y salvaje.
Pinto nuestros besos abundantes como gotas en la tierra,
Tu voz en mis sueños; grita que me amas en un eco cuajado.
Pinto el azul y naranja del illan en tus ojos, luz brillantísima que enceguece.
Nada de lo que logro con los colores puede tocar esto que aun crece en la distancia.
La pasión se adueño hechizándonos en bailes y encuentros.
Acaricio el delicado poema de tu rostro con la yema de mis dedos.
Pinto tus brazos de arboles,
Un remano de ramas que gobiernan libres al viento.
El mundo dibuja con su dolor y su lucha,
Con violines en la cima de tus sueños que escuchan.
Pinto tu corazón, pinto tu valentía, pinto tu arteria cava,
Puedo sentir tu ausencia que se erige entera y me mata.
Pinto tu sexo escondido entre nísperos y el dulce beso,
Pinto tu lengua que se pierde en los caminos de barro, entre mis senos, casitas de teja y yeso.
Me falta un poco de blanco para pintar la paz,
Ante tanta sangre, tanta noche, tanto morado que cubrir.
Hay risas y suspiros en la toda la amplitud de tu faz,
Risa extensa que lo calla todo en un reír.
Primavera, vivida que se nos fue entre pasos y prisas,
Hay historias de hombres libertarios, dictadores y corruptos.
Los exabruptos.
Si cierro los ojos, siento tu aliento de brisa.
A tientas descubro la geografía de tu desnudez,
Me dices que eres mío, solo mío, ¿es cierto? ¡Tal vez lo es!
Lo único mío hoy, es la delicada línea del pincel sobre tus colores,
Y esa canción que canturreamos juntos, aunque tu cantabas dentro de tu pecho …yo lo escuche.
Water woman
Sofía Buchuck-Gil
I am a woman remembering I am water,
they also know me as Yacu, Ejekal,
Ushnu, snow goddess, Yacumama.
My steps whistle with the winds, the sun, the waves, and nothingness,
until I quench your thirst, your desperate need to find purity again,
in the language of a thousand waterfalls renewing us with their essence.
Mama-cocha sings from our most ancient roots,
there, where the round breasts, full of gravity, ask for the moon,
on the paths where destiny interweaves with green truth,
playing with children till she vaporises, remembering she is a bird.
My native brothers know the language of rivers,
because they never lost their laughter, their weeping, their shouts or their nature,
the blue and white smoke that heals everything.
They elevate the journey of ritual,
and become flowers, smiles, love, forgiveness, fury, rain, tears and lake.
I am the Anaconda travelling with our people through black clay ditches,
to renew the wheel of time or defeat the predator with love or magic.
I am the protector of jungles and fertile trees,
I imprint your name, Tla lok-Songo-pacha, on the altar of gods and wise men,
on the heart of mother earth with her prayers, her laws of life and death set in stone.
I am the aquatic womb generating seeds and laughter, Jajaylla.
I am the emerging sea, a stream with voice reclaiming my sons and daughters.
I am the one who calms with the sweet singing of birds under the rain.
I am the stream of spring waters and lagoons, a heart of fire who resists forgetting.
I hum with waves of sand, under the raised arms of our ancestors.
I am rainbow, river and harvest of peasants,
dance of hailstones against death,
Chipchi, chipchi, I tap with a bunch of flowers and mama ruda.
Ancestral pact of genesis, that night knows
grandmothers’ songs under strong, golden moons,
where everything is reborn from feathers.
I am blue water, dressed in white with the poncho of highlands,
who dances with my sisters atop of apu Veronica, Umantay and Qoylloriti,
I disappear with the steps of ukukus, guardians of all that’s sacred, until I free my love
and become dusk’s pilgrim only to kiss the dew.
I am the ancient voice, who, silenced, dies to be reborn in your eyes,
the drum of blood chatting with the river,
tender corn and milk, thin cane flowering in huplacoche
I am the water you drink with both hands,
fine rain and silent warrior.
Trans. Consuelo Rivera-Fuentes and Sofía Buchuck-Gil
Vocabulary
Chipchi: hailstone in Quechua.
Mamacocha: Goddess of water.
Yacumama: Goddess of water.
Tlalok, ushnu: Sacred water.
Huyro: female part of maize, thin cane.
Huplacocha: Fungus or flower of maize that can be eaten.Sofia Buchuck
http://mipueblomehacecantarlondon.blogspot.co.uk/
www.sofiabuchuck.co.uk
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Latinamerican oral history and ethno-musicology.
singer and musician of world music.
English 
Spanish
