Expectations

It's said that expectation surpasses reality, as it falls short of what actually transpires. How will it be? I've too often wondered as I ache and throb lightly.
As the early morning coffee slowly drips, hot and aromatic brew
much better than imagined…this certainty originates from the very core of my being

How will it taste as the hot spices penetrate the slow simmering meat
The ambrosia brewing seduces the palate, intoxicating the senses
The succulent flesh is tenderized and comes apart,
ever pliant and surrendering to the sacrifice

How will it feel when your hands and lips usurp mine?
Oh, electrifying! Careful...careful, you don't want to lose your self
A slave to passion, kneeling upon the altar with utter reverence
as if in sublime adoration of a Deity

Speaking in foreign tongues, utterly possessed in her domain
Groaning like an injured, rabid animal--so unlike your rational self
In the end will it really matter?
What everyone else thinks? The neighbors and society?

When you're drunk on exquisite ecstasy?
When it exudes from your pores, and your glazed eyes speak volumes?
And you know that you can give up lots, except this
No...not this, even to save your life, you cannot negate this

You need to resume this over and over until you drink your fill
from the bottomless barrel; the fecund foam overflows
Like well oiled machinery works in synchronization at maximum capacity
Industrious and creative in its execution to yield better results

Tireless, until sleep and sheer exhaustion overcomes one
to sleep with a soft smile upon the bruised lips
Is it summer madness? The intense heat permeates everything
There is no shame in that; no shame when the flame burns








"When I learned of the motives of the death of Violeta Parra, I wrote this verse. Violeta was an artist who was six years my senior. She fell in love with a boy of the age of my second son. This young Swede, also loved Violeta intensely, for the course of one year.
When he abandoned her, Violeta who did not realize that an artist is condemned to an immense loneliness, and she afraid to delve in it, traveled to Bolivia and shot herself on the temple. It's said her guitar was broken by the impact of her head breaking it."

Chabuca Granda on the lyrics of "Cardo o Ceniza."