La rosa
Las penas de las rosas crecían cada vez más.
Retorcida en un campo de malezas, la rosa desamparada
sintió una sola vez la brisa del paraíso, y se murió.
Los chicos exclamaron: "Dale, rosa, volvé,
que te queremos, rosa". Luego alguien les explicó que pronto
tendrían otra rosa: "Queridos míos, vamos
al estanque; inclínense en la orilla y contemplen
sus propias caras que los observan. "¿No la ven ahí ahora,
cómo abre los pétalos, sube a la superficie y se transforma en ustedes?"
"¡Ay, no!", dijeron ellos. "Nosotros somos lo que somos. Nada más".
Qué perfecto. Qué antiguo. Qué irreparable.
De: "Me va a encantar el siglo XXI", Ediciones Gog & Magog, 2011
Otros poemas de Mark Strand, aquí
Traducción: Ezequiel Zaidemwerg
Imagen: nybooks.com
The rose
The sorrows of the rose werw mounting up.
Twisted in a field of weeds, the helpless rose
felt the breeze od paradise just once, then died.
The children cried, "Oh rose, come back."
We love you, rose". Then someone said tht soon
they'd have another rose. "Come, my darlings,
down to the pond, lean over the edge, and look
at yourselves looking up. "¿Now you do see it,
its petals open, rising to the surface, turning into you?"
"Oh no", they said. "We are what we are-nothing else."
How perfect. How ancient. How past repair.
The sorrows of the rose werw mounting up.
Twisted in a field of weeds, the helpless rose
felt the breeze od paradise just once, then died.
The children cried, "Oh rose, come back."
We love you, rose". Then someone said tht soon
they'd have another rose. "Come, my darlings,
down to the pond, lean over the edge, and look
at yourselves looking up. "¿Now you do see it,
its petals open, rising to the surface, turning into you?"
"Oh no", they said. "We are what we are-nothing else."
How perfect. How ancient. How past repair.
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