4.
La luz ha
cambiado;
el do
está afinado ahora en un tono más profundo.
Y los cantos
de la mañana suenan forzados.
Esta es
la luz de otoño, no de primavera.
La luz de
otoño: no serás desperdiciada.
Los cantos
han cambiado; lo innombrable
entró en
ellos.
Esta es
la luz de otoño, no la luz que dice
He renacido.
No el
amanecer de primavera: empujé, sufrí,
fui dada a luz.
Este es
el presente, una alegoría del desperdicio.
Tanto ha
cambiado. Y aun así, eres afortunada:
el ideal
arde en ti como fiebre
o no como
fiebre, sino como un segundo corazón.
Los
cantos han cambiado, pero en realidad siguen siendo muy hermosos.
Han sido
concentrados a un espacio más pequeño, el espacio de la mente.
Son
oscuros, ahora, con desolación y angustia.
Y aun así
las notas vuelven. Rondan de modo extraño
en
anticipación al silencio.
El oído
se acostumbra a ellas.
El ojo se
acostumbra a las desapariciones.
No serás desperdiciada, ni tu
amor será desperdiciado.
Un viento
vino y se fue, desarticulando la mente;
Ha dejado
en su memento una extraña lucidez.
Cuán
privilegiada eres, de seguir aferrada con pasión
a lo que
amas;
la
pérdida de fe no te ha destruido.
Maestoso, doloroso:
Esta es
la luz de otoño; ha venido sobre nosotros.
Seguramente
es un privilegio acercarse al final
aun
creyendo en algo.
De
‘October’
Louise
Glück, Nueva York, 1943
En Averno,
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 2007
Versión
© Silvia Camerotto
4.
The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.
This is the light of autumn, not
the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
The songs have changed; the
unspeakable
has entered them.
has entered them.
This is
the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.
I am reborn.
Not the
spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.
So much has changed. And still,
you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.
The songs have changed, but
really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.
And yet the notes recur. They
hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.
You will not be spared,
nor will what you love be spared.
A wind has come and gone, taking
apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.
How priviledged you are, to be
passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.
Maestro, doloroso:
This is the light of autumn; it
has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.
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