{"id":4588,"date":"2026-10-22T19:40:37","date_gmt":"2026-10-22T23:40:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/?p=4588"},"modified":"2026-10-22T19:40:37","modified_gmt":"2026-10-22T23:40:37","slug":"alberto-lauro-poesia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/en\/cultura\/poesia\/alberto-lauro-poesia\/","title":{"rendered":"Alberto Lauro :: Poes\u00eda"},"content":{"rendered":"<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Tres poemas a mi padre<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\" style=\"font-family:inherit\">A Amado Pino.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nNo quer\u00edas un hijo bailar\u00edn de ballet\n\n(fue imposible: un edificio me cay\u00f3 encima\n\nY de los escombros medio muerto, destrozando mis tobillos)\n\nTampoco poeta: con mis tios Chavi y Papo ya ten\u00edamos bastante.\n\nPero t\u00eda Mercedes me dio su m\u00e1quina de escribir.\n\nMi abuela, al cortarme por primera vez las u\u00f1as,\n\nLas enterr\u00f3 y sembr\u00f3 encima un rosal,\n\nHechizo seg\u00fan una negra santera que\n\nLe dijo que era infalible para que el ni\u00f1o escribiera versos.\n\nA\u00fan me lo reprochas hasta despu\u00e9s de muerto:\n\nQuer\u00edas que fuera abogado como tu padre, notario,\n\nJuez de toga negra impartiendo justicia.\n\n\u00bfPero c\u00f3mo iba a serlo en una isla donde la Ley\n\nEst\u00e1 escrita en papeles execrables\n\nQue arrojan de los prost\u00edbulos?\n\nComo hijo de todo burgu\u00e9s eras un iluso\n\nAtrapado en el desamparo y sin querer huir.\n\nDe todas formas no pudiste protegerme como quisiste.\n\nY h\u00e9me aqu\u00ed: en el exilio.\n\nNacer poeta en tierra as\u00ed es \u2013como bien dijiste- una maldici\u00f3n.\n\n\n\nII.\n\nEl padre lleva al ni\u00f1o de regreso a casa.\n\nHan ido al parque pero el peque\u00f1o se distrae\n\nCon el vuelo de un p\u00e1jaro, el zumbido de un moscard\u00f3n,\n\nLa ca\u00edda de una hoja,\n\nUna puerta que se abre, el rostro de alguien que pasa.\n\nNo tiene prisa: ni el tiempo\n\nNo existe para \u00e9l.\n\nPero s\u00ed para el padre\n\nQue entonces coge al peque\u00f1o\n\n-es alto, fuerte, bello, musculoso-\n\nY como una pluma lo eleva\n\nY lo sienta sobre sus hombros.\n\nSobre aquellos om\u00f3platos firmes y viriles,\n\nQu\u00e9 hermoso\n\nel mundo se ve\u00eda desde all\u00ed!\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nMi padre ha muerto.\n\nY yo estoy en Madrid en el cumplea\u00f1os\n\nDe la actriz Enma Su\u00e1rez,\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1ndo? Hace unos cinco d\u00edas.\n\nAlguien viene a brindar con champ\u00e1n rosado.\n\nEspa\u00f1a lo ha vuelto insensible \u2013piensa mi t\u00eda Lil\u00ed\n\nDesde el otro lado del tel\u00e9fono, en Miami.\n\nHace una semana y ella ha llorado todo el dia\n\nHasta localizarme. Y yo de fiesta.\n\nNo lo estaba: era el maitre del sarao.\n\nEn el exilio muchas veces ni tiempo tenemos\n\nPara llorar nuestros muertos.\n\nLa fiesta deb\u00eda proseguir si yo era el anfitri\u00f3n.\n\nNo importa. Llorar\u00e9 m\u00e1s tarde.\n\nCuando ya no est\u00e9 y llegue mi hora final\n\nYo Habr\u00e9 desaparecido, padre m\u00edo,\n\nPero t\u00fa vivir\u00e1s en mi poema<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:48px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Noche oscrura de Espa\u00f1a<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\" style=\"font-family:inherit\">Para  Aurora Adrada\n\n\n\nMiro esta noche oscura\n\nDe Espa\u00f1a que es mi espejo.\n\nComo un ciego puedo ver\n\nTu rostro y el m\u00edo,\n\nEsos labios que callan un nombre,\n\nEse nombre que se oculta\n\nEn sellados labios.\n\nY he aqu\u00ed mi cuello\n\nQue es el tuyo, amado verdugo,\n\nA punto de ser ejecutado.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:48px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>Ciudad sitiada<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\" style=\"font-family:inherit\">A  Jos\u00e9 Lorenzo Fuentes y Lida.\n\n\n\nAh, Havanna, all of tropical night\u2026\n\nMae West.\n\n\n\nLas puertas de esta muralla invisible no se abren ni forz\u00e1ndolas.\n\nLas ventanas de estos castillos tampoco. Ni los puentes levadizos.\n\nLas murallas son infanqueables.\n\nEl mar la separa del mundo,\n\nDe todos el m\u00e1s cruel  de los carceleros.\n\nLos que est\u00e1n dentro quieren salir.\n\nLos que est\u00e1n fuera quieren entrar.\n\nLas br\u00fajulas sin Norte, ni Este, ni Oeste ni Sur\n\nQue todos los caminos que no sean a s\u00ed mismo son errados.\n\nQue todo es perdici\u00f3n si hay orfandad. Falsa moneda es el amor.\n\nBatalla perdida. Estandarte ca\u00eddo\n\nEntre multitud de seres calcinados.\n\nCasandra ha muerto y lo que auguran los cuervos es horrible.\n\nMientras tanto nada alivia esta insoportable calma,\n\nEste sudor de sangre al mediod\u00eda.\n\nCaronte sigue haciendo su trabajo puntualmente.\n\nNieva en el tedio y nieva en el hast\u00edo\n\nQue cae como llovizna silenciosa de espanto interminable.\n\n\u00bfEs este el para\u00edso prometido donde estamos convictos?\n\n\u00bfHasta cu\u00e1ndo esta agon\u00eda?\n\nLa quieta indiferencia de la isla est\u00e1 inmersa\n\nEn la estulticia con sabor de alquitr\u00e1n\n\nY esta aparente calma es verdaderamente obscena\n\nPor el centro de esta ciudad pasa un rio de iniquidad abominable,\n\nMezclado con aguas alba\u00f1ales del ultraje, infamias, ignominias y atrocidades.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 opinar de tantas y tan torpes profec\u00edas?\n\nVileza, abyecci\u00f3n, perjurio, oprobio, fraudes y afrentas\n\nSon las flores que perfuman sus jardines.\n\nNo huelen: hieden,\n\nFalso es el verano y falso es el invierno.\n\nRid\u00edculo es creer que a nuestra edad en utop\u00edas y promesas.\n\nLos edificios, la noche, todo se cae a pedazos: se desmorona\n\nSin que nadie pueda impedirlo ante los ojos delirantes del Caudillo.\n\nNo hay antorchas que se enciendan ni faros que iluminen.\n\nLos que deb\u00edan venir no llegan.\n\nLos que deben partir reos son de sus edades.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 himnos procaces cantan tantas bocas mudas,\n\nTantos cuerpos hacinados, de ojos comidos por los peces?\n\nEstamos los desertores esperando una primera se\u00f1al.\n\nY todo sigue inamovible. Envilecido.\n\nAqu\u00ed donde el ojo no amanece en la mirada.<\/pre>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Tres poemas a mi padre A Amado Pino. I. No quer\u00edas un hijo bailar\u00edn de ballet (fue imposible: un edificio me cay\u00f3 encima Y de los escombros medio muerto, destrozando mis tobillos) Tampoco poeta: con mis tios Chavi y Papo ya ten\u00edamos bastante. Pero t\u00eda Mercedes me dio su m\u00e1quina de escribir. Mi abuela, al [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":284226809,"featured_media":5081,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[33205619],"tags":[33205620],"class_list":["post-4588","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poesia","tag-poesia"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v28.1 (Yoast SEO v28.8) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-premium-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Alberto Lauro :: Poes\u00eda - Ca\u00f1asanta<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/en\/culture\/poetry\/alberto-lauro-poesia\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Alberto Lauro :: Poes\u00eda\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Tres poemas a mi padre A Amado Pino. I. No quer\u00edas un hijo bailar\u00edn de ballet (fue imposible: un edificio me cay\u00f3 encima Y de los escombros medio muerto, destrozando mis tobillos) Tampoco poeta: con mis tios Chavi y Papo ya ten\u00edamos bastante. Pero t\u00eda Mercedes me dio su m\u00e1quina de escribir. 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