Todo
Últimamente
el viento quema
las
hojas finales y la noche
llega
demasiado tarde para servir
para
algo, últimamente he aprendido
que
el año da la cara
al
invierno
y
nada de lo que diga o haga
puede
cambiar algo.
Entonces
duermo hasta tarde y me despierto
mucho
después de que el sol haya salido
en
una casa vacía y camino
por
pasillos polvorientos o me siento
y
escucho al viento
crujir
en los aleros y las vigas
de
esta vieja casa. Y digo
mañana
será diferente
pero
sé que no.
Sé
que los días se acortan
y
cuando el sol se acumula
en
mis pies puedo alcanzar
ese
círculo mágico
sin
quemarme. Entonces
agarro
las pocas cosas
que
importan, mi libro,
mis
lentes, el anillo de mi padre,
mi
cepillo, y los aparto
en
un bolso marrón y espero-
alguien
viene a buscarme.
Una
voz que jamás he oído
dirá
mi nombre
o
una cara apoyada contra la ventana
como
se apoyó una vez mía
cuando
el mundo me daba la mano.
Tenía
que ver qué es
lo
que amaba tanto. No hubo
tiempo
para mostrarme
cómo
una hoja se libera a sí misma
del
agua o cómo la misma agua llora
sí
misma a dormir por
cada
sed humana. Ahora
debo
esperar y quedarme quieto
y
no decir nada que no sepa,
nada
que no haya vivido
una
y otra vez,
y eso es todo.
Philip Levine, Detroit,
1928- Fresno, 2015
versión ©Silvia
Camerotto
imagen de Mathew Hamblen en Mattsart Fine Art Painting
Everything
Lately
the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
that the year has turned
its face to winter
and nothing I say or do
can change anything.
So I sleep late and waken
long after the sun has risen
in an empty house and walk
the dusty halls or sit
and listen to the wind
creak in the eaves and struts
of this old house. I say
tomorrow will be different
but I know it won't.
I know the days are shortening
and when the sun pools
at my feet I can reach
into that magic circle
and not be burned. So
I take the few things
that matter, my book,
my glasses, my father's ring,
my brush, and put them aside
in a brown sack and wait -
someone is coming for me.
A voice I've never heard
will speak my name
or a face press to the window
as mine once pressed
when the world held me out.
I had to see what it was
it loved so much. Nothing
had time to show me
how a leaf spun itself
from water or water cried
itself to sleep for
every human thirst. Now
I must wait and be still
and say nothing I don't know,
nothing I haven't lived
over and over,
and that's everything.
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
that the year has turned
its face to winter
and nothing I say or do
can change anything.
So I sleep late and waken
long after the sun has risen
in an empty house and walk
the dusty halls or sit
and listen to the wind
creak in the eaves and struts
of this old house. I say
tomorrow will be different
but I know it won't.
I know the days are shortening
and when the sun pools
at my feet I can reach
into that magic circle
and not be burned. So
I take the few things
that matter, my book,
my glasses, my father's ring,
my brush, and put them aside
in a brown sack and wait -
someone is coming for me.
A voice I've never heard
will speak my name
or a face press to the window
as mine once pressed
when the world held me out.
I had to see what it was
it loved so much. Nothing
had time to show me
how a leaf spun itself
from water or water cried
itself to sleep for
every human thirst. Now
I must wait and be still
and say nothing I don't know,
nothing I haven't lived
over and over,
and that's everything.
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