By Eduardo Lizalde
Marco Antonio Campos adds to its already extensive, highly personal and surprising work of poet, critic, translator, writer, historian and scholar Mexican literature and others, this book copy which he called Tell me where, what country (a line making Villon) and he has written, he says, with poems and prose fiction.
The book is beautiful and complex in its apparent simplicity, but intricate framework of references, literary allusions, historical and artistic and is, in fact, both true poetry, as has been completed on its poetry, the author, but at the same time a dazzling collection of visions, chronicles a trip around the world, urban landscapes, and consummate love not , seas, rivers, mountains, painting galleries, meetings with authors legendary or born yesterday, impoverished neighborhoods, adventures by train and at the same time, profound and moving incursions into one's own life, soul and family memory. Somehow, this set of Marco Antonio, makes me think of the wonderful and perfect book another illustrious visionary, traveler, historian and autobiographer impressive: the great and prolific Catalan José Pla, author of the imperfect and invaluable volunteer day of gray notebook, which has not been possible to complete printing.
An indispensable, and ever wanted to read even his best is Marco Antonio, who do not reach these few lines to celebrate as he deserves for his new-short-masterpiece.
Following is the text of Tell me where, what country Marco Antonio Campos, recently published by Visor.
BACK TO BUENOS AIRES
what am I lost at every step
and reminds me that I lost.
Antonio Porchia, Voices, 247
return Ah how far winter days when the girl was thinner thin more to miss the Avenue Las Heras, she, which I forgot 14 years, and returns today with her pure light and feverish to say goodbye when it was goodbye! Today we do not know where to call, but I know that he was less miserable if he had me. August afternoon brings me as I cross to the building where he dwelt, anticipating that if we find anything we would know of anything, as the tree is not the grass, much less be the winter of 1992, with its cold and wet, and zero degrees, their monotonous fog, rain made me more sad when I ventured into the pier. How many times I've wondered if poetry is possible named, or even what he LIMIT, which is no longer, what is not, what would have been, what has been to return. I still
to La Recoleta. In the plaza I hear, or think I hear the voice slowed of Bioy Casares, passing by La Biela me in the cold June recounted misogynistic anecdotes that made me laugh bend to form the mean square and find shade under the branches of trees. I sit on a bench and take in air I hear the voices of Irusta songs and Simeone, and I am in cafes or homes with a maximum or Noah, or Mempo Diana, with whom I argue in Mexico as a country with a sad look but fire, conversely magic "flowery and prickly" yesterday morning in the water and coal, and George, meanwhile, opens doors for me I delayed climbing walls or pull the silver copper believing. I outlined in the report and it breaks everything, including the soul, the face of the Buenos Aires modiglianesco I mean. And whisper words I said another and that the river carries them because they will not let me say them now: were so beautiful, you could not talk .
had spent nine years at the time, but the shadow cast a shadow military anywhere in the name of the Holy Trinity in filthy mouths, causing chills and nausea : Patria, Order, family. If someone is not careful digging in the ground would greet dead, and if along the river, a procession of drowning. Then came broken generations, the speculator with gangsters menemismo brothel, the nauseating and low forgiveness to the criminals, the precipitous fall of political morality, theft fierce money from the poor, the slow recovery misleading as a horse in tow.
But who plucked the tree of the town?
People see me walking back through the streets of Libertador Avenue and back stopover on the Plaza San Martín, and front and going around in circles to the gum, I remember I remember in '92 the year of my youth paralleled with that tree that starts the floor, multiple branches, dry trees, fighting with the wind scream hurt, that tree with unlimited power but we do not know where or how to direct . At that time I was barely off still saddens me, in the soul the weapon, and heading the conviction would be the last time I come to Buenos Aires.
I dwelt in Palermo, near the woods, and later, in an empty coffee Santa Fe street, I said goodbye forever to that girl, who seemed drawn by the pencil winding Modigliani , a la que no veré más, a la que no podré ver, porque nadie puede despasarse en lo andado, y sólo queda quedarse así, recargado en el barandal, creyendo oír que oigo el paso de los segundos de las manecillas superlativas del Reloj Inglés, pero que sólo en el horizonte alcanza a distinguir de nube en nube el violáceo y el morado del sol que lentamente cae, y lo apaga, y no es . 
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