[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Fermin H. Sandoval – Issue.XXVII : April 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]another one…[/ultimate_heading]

About the Poet:

Fermin H. SandovalFermin H. Sandoval is the Director of Studies at the Seminario Mayor Nuestra Señora at the Diocese of Ibarra Otavalo Institute of Anthropology and the University of Otavalo. He studied the morality of theology (Teologia Morale) at Facolta Teologica dell’Italia Settentrionale. He lives in Otavalo, Ecuador.


* below the translated versions, you will find the original poems 

* Gina is the translator of all other Ecuadorian poets in this series unless otherwise specified 



What color are my eyes?


Tired of the markets…

I went back to write in the meadows,

while hoeing under the moon

I will sow potatoes, corn…wheat;

at harvest time

I will invite friends,

I will arm the age

to seperate the grain and the chaff;

I’ll let the stubble rot

before shaking the roots

and back to rock the earth;

I will make a large bonfire

to remember me your look

with the blaze of the flames,

the taste of chicha,

the tender corn,

the chicken broth, the cuy,

the sauces… of chili pepper.


The markets have their beauty,

everyone wants to buy and to sell;

the chaffer is still going on,

it is like hope:

a loving look which promises.


What color are my eyes?

The color of the moon, of the corn… of the land

of the market… and when will they cry from the water.




¿Qué color son mis ojos?


Cansado de los mercados…

regreso a escribir en los prados,

con el azadón y la luna

sembraré papas, maíz… trigo;

al tiempo de la cosecha

invitaré a los amigos,

armaré la era

para separar el grano del tamo;

dejaré que se pudran los rastrojos

antes de sacudir las raíces

y volver a mecer la tierra;

haré una gran hoguera

que me recuerde tu mirada

con el resplandor de las llamas,

el sabor de la chicha,

de los choclos tiernos,

del caldo de gallina, del cuy

de los mellocos… del ají.


Los mercados tiene su belleza,

todos quieren comprar y venderse;

la chagra se guarda su enigma,

es como la esperanza:

una mirada amante que promete.


¿De qué color son mis ojos?

Del color de la luna, del maíz… de la tierra

del mercado… y cuando lloran del agua.

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