Julia Wong Kcomt


For Wata, in memoriam

Peru dies.
Like garlic bulbs
this whim of blouses
cut so masterfully.
The iron windows.
The paint staining my ovaries.

Sushi is now the language
of the people
and my mighty noodles
wait in a forgotten pot.

Papá told me to detest the Japanese
like everyone says to hate Chileans.
But with so much love,
I find no difference
between the cherry tree, the sakura, the lotus flower, and the olive bush:
In the Atacama, Christ sifts
through red grape seeds.

Peru dies, Wata,
and all I remember is what you said about my aunt:
“She was hot, your aunt Carmen,
she didn’t look Chinese.”
I smiled unoffended, because in Peru nobody
looks like anything.

There was a chifa restaurant.

You ate wonton soup
with your Chinese friends,
and as we searched for an emblem
to overcome the centimeter and a half of
difference in our eyelids,
a red rooster
loosed a sound louder than nothingness.

Our Peru is dying.
The rooster will sing again when the stone flies.


I was waiting for our strange love, for you to tuck scales in your pockets,
and slit my indigos with scalpels.
A surgeon of doubt is a good man, I’ve lied:
I never wanted a family, or a house.
I longed, a little, for a dialogue with the unknown,
I would like for you to perform amputations
on the corner of desperation,
for you to slay the faun spying on us, here
between rooted moons and salads of hypnotized
The bottle of Cusqueña is unchilled and will not inebriate.
Fear in every step draws me toward your voice.
your voice exists, here,
in the damp garden of wireless valleys.
I bump into clouds, couches, the Chinese chest that survived shipwreck
and the invasion of Nanjing.
No embroidered skirts, or limes that bleed.
Argentine masks hide their devotion to the black spirits of the sea.
00000The moth-eaten blouse of a father opening and closing his mouth like a frog,
old now, blind now, and thus loving…
His finger pointing.
An ear of corn brought from Cajamarca, desiccated.
What neverending vice makes you master of our fear?
Turn the lever and descend till you take pity on my fright.
Do not attempt to shuck the absurd flower of my doubts about the Fatherland.
We’ll celebrate over the graves, you’ll see,
that death brings sadness is another lie.
It’s just a matter of adjusting.
Spectating, a task that goes hand in hand with your eloquence
The rectangular voice of a TV reporter bakes petals and sprigs into stone,
to seduce children with no serpents or bumper cars.
You are a gilded man full of fear.
We crank the gramophone and pay to watch you cry.


“And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon”

(Laertes to Ophelia)


There, dead, lie I beneath the wheels/ no one could clench a doubt against you.
Me, poor, brown, coal for your skin/ You, the kingdom’s raptor.
Me daughter of the commoners’ ossuary, on Calle Guadalupe,
River of Emotion I have been/ You, mighty Eagle, king of North America.
You cry for me, you say?
Who’s to believe your bald calumny?
You love all the precious false doves that plunge down at your feet.
Me: black lily of the desert.
We had a daughter.

You knew, when you reached the throne
you’d need to invent ghosts.
Circus of and for jackal gods.
Suicide, madness,
a shove brittling in appearance…
I’ve come undone and why matters to no one.
The king seeks his crown on the asphalt. Me,
I ought to go down to the bottom of the sun.
Without my shadow/ you, denuded of me,
decorated in shields and poisoned swords.
Red wine with notes of expiration.
You, my immortal victim, my bona fide galaxy, kingly tear.
Me, beneath the wheels.

Translated by Jennifer Shyue

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro

JULIA WONG KCOMT was born into a tusán (Chinese Peruvian) family in Chepén, Peru, in 1965. She traveled from an early age, and her perceptions of country borders, different cultures, and diversity in ethnicity and religion became a strong motivation to write. She is the author of 16 volumes of poetry, including Un salmón ciego (Borrador Editores) and 18 poemas de fake love para Keanu Reeves (Cascada de Palabras); five books of fiction; and two collections of hybrid prose. She currently lives between Lima and Lisbon.


Luis Alonso Cruz Alvarez


The Sybillas of this town
speak to me in the mirror.
One and zero,
they type desolate
like a bridge between unstoppable words
and the dark abyss
Beautiful this omnipresent silence!

The stars
don’t forget.
The mind, yes.
So the oblivion is a city
where nothingness
cracks the space,
distort the light
and makes everyone blind.

Sweet Revenge.
Oblivion is also people's clothes
that hides his memories
and neither God,
like a pearl in the sky,
avoid the veil of its inhabitants.

The mind is a reflection of nothing.
With nothing,
ghosts appear
like electrical pulses in machines
or the numbers on the phones.

(Jardín Mecánico, 2020)


the midnight
it's a clear
Its emptiness
It feels like a machine
As a memory
like a wall,
and with that tone he paints the whole existence,
laughs at his work,
look at your flaws
and play everything

It is a maternal virtue,
embrace these sands of time
when the children
they become fire in memory,
a sacrifice

Sit down,
sleep on the right side
and that the dream
how to be watery,
evaporate in the memory.

But this sea can more,
gets into the wall
gain ground in bed,
And when,
Midnight and I looked at each other,
there is melted snow on every question that is silent
in his dark answers,
and in my shakes of light.

the midnight
it's a sea

(La Música del Hielo, 2015)

Far Away

Mother says, today´s a special day
(The Bolshoi)

Happy moments,
happy losses.
Voices fall down like rain
In the midst of the abandoned house

There's a yellow photo album on the table,
and in the cupboard a black cat looks at us
we hold gazes
and felt there´s no hope.

Tomorrow will be another day,
the ship will wait as usual
Every day is like Sunday

Heroes have died on the eve
that's all I know,
Neither, I want to read your diary to find out about more death
or feel thorns in my ribs.

The body that’s far away
it remains as the great mystery
the hidden path
the faith that moves a mountain
the reason why stars are read
in thedistance.

(Hombre Fractal, 2018)

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro

LUIS ALONSO CRUZ ALVAREZ. Lima, Peru 1981. Industrial Engineer from the University of Lima, with a doctorate in pedagogy from UNINI Mexico. Former member of Renato Sandoval's poetry workshop at the University of Lima (2000-2003) He published the books Tetrameron (Lima University Fund, 2003), Lumen, Trilogy of the Spirit (Nido de Cuervos, 2007); Radio Futura, within the “Piedra y Sangre” Collection (Lustra Editores, 2008); Ossuary of Perplexed Creatures (MiCieloEdiciones, 2014), La Música del Hielo (Bird on Cables Editors, 2015) Fractal Man (Bisonte Editorial, 2018) and Mechanical Garden (Editorial Primigenios, 2020. E-book format). He has been honorably mentioned in the poetry contests “Julio Garrido Malaver” (Peru, 2017) and “Parallel Zero” (Ecuador, 2020). He was nominated for the National Poetry Award with the book Fractal Man (Perú, 2019) His poems appear in “Versolibrismo, Current Poetry and Art” (Rio Negro, 2013), “Cuatro PoetasPeruanos” (El QuirófanoEditores, Guayaquil 2013), “Plexo Perú Poesía y Gráfica Perú-Chile” (Editorial Quimantú and Casa Azul, Valparaíso, 2014), “Looking over the Hay. Current Poetry Show ”(Vallejo & Company Ediciones, Lima 2014), Current Ibero-American Poetry Anthology (Ex Libric editions, Málaga, 2018), Lienzo Magazine N ° 40 (Editorial Fund of the University of Lima, 2019) and“ Isolated, dose of poetry for uncertain times ”(DendroEdiciones, 2020). Likewise, part of his poetry has been translated into English, Italian, Bengali and Uzbek. He was invited to different festivals and literary fairs such as the Bogotá Poetry Festival (2016, 2020), the Miches Beach Poetry Festival (Dominican Republic, 2020), I Pack of Words (Santa Cruz, 2019), the January Poetry Festival in the Word (Cusco, 2018, 2016, 2014, 2013), Havana Book Fair (Cuba, 2014) among others. He is the administrator of the cultural and miscellaneous blog “Fundador de Supernovas” ((http://luiscruzalvarez.blogspot.pe/ )


Patricia Colchado


I remember those girls
––the few who came back––,
they returned already grown women.
Their eyes no longer sparkled
when they looked at the white sand.
They were denied the thrill of painting their hands
with hay;
their souls seemed infused by soot.
Their beauty was erased,
their tenderness
devoured by tongues of fire.

Anguish was an immense, black, carnivore
that grew inside us.
For a long time our bodies were
harbors for our trembling.

It was getting late…
Some of us managed to climb over the wall, the others
were tied up and taken away,
of their childhood there remained only fleeting
shadows projected on the walls.


He has gone silent.
I have seen him drift away
as when I found him
abandoned on the beach…
Where did he leave his thoughts?
his words? his smile?
And, despite all that, it is this little one
who has saved me.
Not these residency papers,
not this compassion.

My fingernails have turned grimy
for digging into the pain.
My skin has dried up
like a Sahara cypress. My skin,
but not my trunk, he is that: my son.

We have become
two beings traveling
amidst barks and fowl smells,
beings who awaken without knowing why
under the patient gaze of crickets and doves.


I saw him floating,
I saw him sinking
until his little body slept
in the ocean’s eternity.
My arms opened paths
between the waves,
and my head
struggled to stay above water.
I cried.
I cried for that little child
who wanted to escape
first from the shots, and then from death.

Where was his home?
somewhere in the ocean perhaps?
And I am here,
standing up but torn apart,
lost to myself in this stinking skin.
A skin that should have died,
but lives on in the muck…

This is war!
Rots our souls,
makes us beings drenched
in anger and bitterness.

Translated by Braulio Muñoz

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro

PATRICIA COLCHADO (Peru, 1981). Writer and poet, she lives in Munich (Germany). Colchado published the plate of poems Hypercubus (2000), the poetry books Blumen (2005), Las pieles del edén (2007), Ciudad ajena (2015), LyrischerKalender / Calendariolírico. Poetic selection,  bilingual (2017) and Ningunlado/ Nirgendland. Bilingual edition (2021). In 2011 she received the honorable mention in the award organized by the International Association La Porte des Poétes de France. In 2020 she won the poetry contest organized by the Stadtlesen International Literature Festival (Austria), representing the city of Munich, with her poem “Un árbol dentro de mí“. In 2011 she published the novel La danza del narciso. She is the author of several children's books.


Eli Urbina (photo Carlos Sánchez)


Takva je smrt
Nismo verovali u nju
A sada nastanjujemo
Sobe kostiju
Zalivamo travu
Kosu žena
Koje smo voleli i oca
Kojeg nismo imali
Jer imali smo noć
So hijena
Tihu ljubav drveća
Taj med koji su bogovi prezreli
A deca izvajala
Zaboravljajući sopstvena imena
Planine peska i kose
Naslage krhotina i zaborava
Mladeže od kamena i od trske
Liker bezimenih zvezda
Jezik grozote
I ljubavi

Prevela Branka Vinaver

Prethodni tekstovi autora: La sal de las hienas / So hijena

Elí Urbina: La sal de las hienas / So hijena

Elí Urbina


Entre los racimos de saliva y sangre
solo el fardo de la sombra
la voz de esa mujer a la que amé
esa reja entre lo que soy
y los nombres del pasado

Todavía hay ansiedad
Aún hay vestigios de algo
que no termino de perder

La muerte se avecina
pero ya estoy en medio de la muerte
ya camino en esa acera
donde la suerte es otra
dimensión de la ironía
otro rostro de su rostro
y hay mensajes perdidos

Tal vez ya es suficiente
Quizá de nada sirve
alzar estas palabras contra la soledad.

(De La sal de las hienas, 2017)


Među bokorima pene i krvi
samo je teret senke
glas te žene koju sam voleo
ta mreža između onoga što sam
i svih imena iz prošlosti

Još uvek postoji nemir
I dalje se naziru tragovi nečega
što još nisam izgubio

Smrt se približava
ali ja sam već usred smrti
već hodam po tom pločniku
gde je sreća druga
dimenzija ironije
drugo lice njenog lica
gde su izgubljene poruke

Možda je već dosta
možda ničemu ne služi
podići ove reči protiv samoće

(Iz zbirke So hijena, 2017)

Prevod: Branka Vinaver

ELÍ URBINA (Perú, 1989) Poeta y Licenciado en Letras. Ha sido invitado a numerosos encuentros, lecturas y festivales de poesía. Textos suyos han sido traducidos al griego e italiano. La sal de las hienas es su primer libro de poemas.

ELI URBINA (Peru, 1989) Pesnik i diplomirani filolog. Učestvovao je na mnogobrojnim književnim susretima, recitalima i festivalima poezije. Neke od njegovih pesama prevedene su na grčki i italijanski. So hijena je njegova prva zbirka poezije.