Hector Escobar Gutierrez
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ScribdTranslationsHector Escobar Gutierrez
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ScribdTranslationsThere are certain types of fictions, ghostly obsessions, and evil visions.
populated by demons and inner horrors that are transcribed onto paper thanks to
a state of subjective possession present in the literary and poetic work of certain authors,
as prisoners of inspiration and the desire to free themselves from an obsession that is not clear
not for themselves, they produce these magnificent writings, rich in an endless number of
existential facts that together make up the vast world of the hidden,
enigmatic and dark in being.
It is this fantastic state, of dark inspiration that we present to you from the writer.
and Colombian poet Héctor Escobar Gutiérrez
Nicknamed the Black Pope of Colombia, Héctor Escobar has been systematically
ignored by the Colombian mass media, and they only focus on the
stereotype of the 'satanism guru' as a certain journalist once called it
I prefer not to remember the name.
I suppose they ignore it precisely because Don Héctor says things that are really true.
dangerous: they teach to think for oneself, and their use of language, filled with
symbolisms and metaphors are the headache of prude parents and crossbearers of
State, who would prefer that the type did not exist. Because if they attacked him head on, he
they would be giving importance, and would make sure that at least the restless spirits would
they approach your poetic prose and your profane verses, and they believe that the best strategy to
to follow is not to draw attention to him. At least the establishment knew, in this
case, identify your most dangerous enemy: free thought.
Monologue of Justino the Heresiarch
I am certain that I have descended so deeply into myself, towards
the depth of my own hell, which I corroborate with horror the impossibility of
to undertake my return to the world of the living.
I find myself abandoned on the edge of that dark area of the mind, where
they confuse the fictions of reality with the realities of imagination. In that
dark point, at that convergence center, to which some made a veiled allusion
of the mysterious books that I reread with such obsessive persistence in my youth and that
Today, I reproach myself for having chosen them.
Ah, but I remember, it was Photius, called the philosopher, who said: 'the delusions of the
youth will extinguish the terrors of old age. And in my case, I confirm the truth.
unrivaled object of this aphorism; because, precisely, it was my audacity and my stubbornness that
that prevented me from reflecting on the dangers and unforeseen hidden risks.
behind the cryptic characters and symbologies. Manifested in the ancient codices, in the
grimoire arcanum and in the impious palimpsests, which fevered my intellect and which
they constituted my frequent readings in those long-gone days of my youth.
But late and useless reflections are of no help to me, because today I am left with only
to wait for the dreaded moment, the instant in which the evil creature that drives me crazy
and drags into its abyss, finally lift the mystical seal so that I can
to contemplate, unveiled, face to face, the horrendous face of my lord the Devil.
They condemn me Satan
to the Bonfire Round on the Rock
They condemn me to the stake Satan roams on the rock,
it is the supreme sentence In the mineral rust,
my voice rises and blasphemes From its abyssal depth
against the law that prevails. It destroys everything it touches.
Laugh the shouting crowd Our will is diminished
And he throws his anathema at me, With his infernal malice
With extreme treachery And there in his fateful hell
Foolishness wounds me. It condemns us and traps us
I suffer in the midst of the fire Satan dwells in the stone;
And yet I do not plead for mercy Nobody—nor does God intimidate him—
Not to the monk, but to the executioner. His evil never represses.
The fire grows on the pyre If our soul shines
And the mob of hatred raves It sinks her into darkness
Because I did not accept his yoke. And with great fury, she oppresses it.
CONTENTS
Blinded by the ray of a dazzling star,
stumbling along the sloped path.
With the devil confronted in lyrical contest,
I search in the midst of chaos for the fecundating image.
With my restless pupil, in trance, delirious,
I fervently hope that the evening star lights up;
that the sky reveals to me its mystical legend,
so that the verse vibrates with impactful ardor.
However, around me, the mockery increases;
a lofty rhythm bursts forth in my verses
And which biblical prophet preached in the desert?
Is my brain a crater where lava flows;
between explosions I watch as my being worsens,
until forever petrified and stiff.
The temporal
We did not fall out of time. We are in it.
Only death frees us from their nets,
of these four high walls
that prevent us from seeing where we are going.
In time we got trapped
and no matter how much you think you can never
you will be able to understand, why you concede
To love love, if we hate God.
Everything contradicts us and saddens us
for this solitude that condemns us
to be in the company of the abandoned.
There is no possible way out as long as I live.
and the man continues drifting
inside these enclosed spaces.
(Escobar, 2004:11).
TRANSMIGRATIONS
THE DEAD DO REINCARNATE,
WE ARE OURSELVES,
BECAUSE WE ARE THE SUM OF WHAT HAS BEEN,
COMPENDIUM IN THE PRESENT OF WHAT HAS EXISTED, THE REST ARE
Daydreams, Theories, and Mirages.
TO BE WHAT WE ARE TODAY WE HAVE TRAVERSED ABISMS,
FROM OTHER TIMES AND SPACES WE HAVE COME,
FROM A MYTHICAL ORIGIN, THE JOURNEY THAT HAS LED TO THIS BEGAN.
THE WORLD BROUGHT US OVERCOMING CATACLYSMS. WE WERE TREES,
BEASTS, WE WERE MEN, WOMEN, WE ALSO WERE THE NIGHTS AND
THE SUNSETS OF A VERY ANCIENT COSMOS FUSED IN THE
MEMORY, THAT'S WHAT WE WERE AND TODAY WE ARE THE FUTURE PROSPECTS OF
GALACTIC GIANTS, CERTAINLY MORE PURE THAN THIS RACE OF
MONSTERS THAT HAVE BLED HISTORY.
SELF-PORTRAIT
Tantrist, goetic, devoted to the demon,
diligent reader of the impious grimoires,
initiated in the art of love rites,
On the bare altar, I placed my ex-voto.
From the terror in which I live, my being is motionless,
burning in the abysses of burning hells,
I act behind the face of illusory faces,
my spirit wanders from a remote century.
From the muses, I receive their magical whispers,
the rhyme I sing with burins and chisels
and I perceive the rhythm of the higher spheres.
My voice with faith whispers its devilish train
and my being burns a parabolic circle
at whose center mythical bonfires burn.