Ada Huamani

It's the voice of whiteness -- a blue-throated restless silence :
That's upon the peaks of life, and of death too;
Found through meaninglessness at intervals -- in lanes and bylanes, over hills and mountains.

It comes with the sun and the rains; the human colour added --
Through the hours, through the seasons -- to the endless, senseless motions of nature;
A rainbow drawn upon the forehead by the sun -- and the rains.

Perhaps, it is what love is or the greenery of conjugality :
Touches, warmth, the murmur of memories, the pressure of enamoured fingers;
Perhaps, it is the friendship full of waiting, the blue flute of life.

Perhaps, it's the victorious flashes of the apples crushed upon the teeth of Time;
The glitter of emptiness filled with broken glasses; the ever-awake wind
Moving -- through darkness -- over deaths and snows.
Over the grasses and the scorched fields, over the flowers and pyres --
Full of a duality -- it's the form of meaning of desire and emtyness.
Lonely, crowdful, marked with sweat and blood -- wavy, greyish.
It's a secret voice coming through the ages, through light and darkness.
In the villages, in the cities -- amidst the foul vapours, greediness,
The wildness of the uncivilised -- pained and iron-like it's the voice of whiteness...