A keresés eredménye

The Instant

Where will the centuries be, where will the dream
of swords that the Tartars dreamed of,
where the strong walls they leveled,
where the Adam Tree and the other Log?
 
The present is alone. The memory
erects time. Succession and deception
it is the routine of the clock. Year
it is no less vain than vain history.
 
Between dawn and night there is an abyss
of agonies, of lights, of cares

Anticipation of Love

Neither the intimacy of your look,
your brow fair as a feast day,
nor the favor of your body,
still mysterious, reserved, and childlike,
nor what comes to me of your life,
settling in words or silence,
will be so mysterious a gift
as the sight of your sleep, enfolded
in the vigil of my arms.
 
Virgin again, miraculously,
by the absolving power of sleep,
quiet and luminous
like some happy thing recovered by memory,
you will give me that shore of your life
that you yourself do not own.
 
Cast up into silence
I shall discern that ultimate beach of your being
and see you for the first time, perhaps,
as God must see you --
the fiction of Time destroyed,
free from love, from me.
 

Waking Up

Daylight leaks in, and sluggishly I surface
from my own dreams into the common dream
and things assume again their proper places
and their accustomed shapes. Into this present
the Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range–
the centuries-old habits of migration
in birds and men, the armies in their legions
all fallen to the sword, and Rome and Carthage.
 
The trappings of my day also come back:
my voice, my face, my nervousness, my luck.
If only Death, that other waking-up,
would grant me a time free of all memory
of my own name and all that I have been!
If only morning meant oblivion!
 

The One in Love

Moons, ivory, instruments, roses,
lamps and the works of Dürer,
the nine numbers and the changing zero,
are things I must pretend to see.
 
I must pretend that Persépolis and Roma
were long gone, and that a fine arena
measured the luck of the battlement
that the centuries of Iron disrupted.
 
I must pretend that the weapons and pyre
of the epopee and the heavy seas
eat away the Pillars of the Earth,
 
and that others exist, yet it's all a lie.
Only you exist. You, my misfortune
and my fortune, who is tireless and pure.
 

The Bison

Mountainous, worn down, indecipherable,
flaming red as an ember that goes out,
it walks burly and slowly in the vague
solitude of its untiring wilderness.
 
It awakes with its equipped nape.
In this old bull with sleep rage,
I see the Indian men from the West
and the lost men from Altamira.
 
Then I think that human time, whose
spectral mirror is memory, ignores it.
Time cannot reach it, nor can the history
 
of its passage, so changeable and futile.
Timeless, numberless and nil
is the first and final bison.
 

Baruch Spinoza

In golden haze, the West lights up
the window. The frequent manuscript
awaits, already filled with infinity.
Thus God is created in dim light.
 
A man begets God. He is a jew
with sad eyes and an olive skin.
Time carries him like the river carries
a leaf through the declining water.
 
He shows no care. The magician perseveres
and carves his God with fine geometry,
and starts from His disease, from nothing.
 
He still proclaims God's name with His word.
The most prodical love was bestowed to him,
His love, which does not wait to be loved.
 

The Moon

There is such solitude in that gold.
At night, the moon is not the one
that witnessed the first Adam. The many centuries
of human vigil have embellished it
with ancient sadness. Behold. It's your reflection.
 

The Sea

Ere Dream - or Terror - had begun to glean
its web of myth and broad cosmogony,
ere Time had settled unto days, the Sea -
the ever Sea - existed and had been.
 
Who is the Sea? Who is the old tormentor
who has for ages sapped the earthly shore,
and who at once is one and countless more,
and randomness and storm and fall and splendor?
 
Each time one sees the sea is yet the first.
The spellbound soul takes in the peremptory
display of primal things: the moonshine glory,
the shifting skies, the gaze in flames immersed.
 
Who is the Sea, who am I? I shall find
the day my agony is left behind.
 

Alhambra

Pleasant the voice of the water
to those wearied by black sand,
pleasant to the concave hand
the curving marble of the column,
pleasant the delicate labyrinths of water
among the lemon trees,
pleasant the music of zajal verse,
pleasant the love and pleasant the pleas
lifted to a God who stands alone,
pleasant the jasmine.
 
Vain the scimitar
before the long lances of the many,
vain to be the best.
Pleasant to feel or foresee, grieving king,
that your delights are goodbyes,
that the key will be denied you,
that the cross of the infidel will efface the moon,
that this pleasant evening will be the last.
 

Regained Neighborhood

No one saw the beauty of the streets
until frightful and crying
the greenish sky collapsed
in a melancholy of water and of shadow.
The hurricane was unanimous
and the world was abhorrent to the looks,
but when an arch blessed
with the colors of the forgiveness of the evening
and a smell of wet soil
encouraged the gardens,
we set off to walk through the streets
as if with a regained domain,
and there were generosities of sunshine on the crystals
and on the bright leaves
the summer spoke its tremulous inmortality.
 

To the Sad One

There lies what once was: the stubborn sword
of the Saxon and its steel metric,
the seas and the islands of exile
of Laertes' son, the golden
moon of the Persian and the endless gardens
of philosophy and history,
the sepulchral gold of the memory
and in the shadow, the smell of the jasmines.
And none of it matters. The resigned
exercising of the verse doesn't save you
nor do the waters of the dream or the star
which forgets dawn in the razed night.
A single woman is your care,
she's just like the others, but she is herself.
 

Farewell

Between my love and I shall be raised
three hundred nights like three hundred walls
and the sea shall be a magic between us.
 
There shall not even be memories.
Oh evenings deserving of pity,
hopeful nights of looking upon you,
fields of my road, firmament
that I am seeing and losing . . .
Definitive like a marble
your absence shall sadden other evenings.
 

The accomplice

They crucify me and I should be the cross and the nails.
They put forth the cup and I should be the hemlock.
They deceive me and I should be the lie.
They light me on fire and I should be Hell.
I should praise and be thankful for every moment of time.
My nutriment is everything.
The precise weight of the universe, of humiliation, of mirth.
I should justify what pains me.
My fortunes and misfortunes don't matter.
I am the poet.