martes, 11 de noviembre de 2014

Mary Hoggan







Mary Hoggan

Se disipó el humo último de aquel mundo.
Pero por algún motivo –que no entiendo-
queda un olor a madera vieja, a cortina
roída por el tiempo. Respiro
ese aire, después de tantos vientos
contra los muros de casas que ya no existen.
A limpid dream –diría,
si pudiese abrir su boca sellada hace mucho.
Y yo, que sigo sentado, como entonces,
ante el mismo y descolado libro
para aprendices, le digo
- aunque ya no pueda oírme-,
con la misma torpe pronunciación de siempre:
Know what we are, remembering what we were .


A limpid dream: Edwin Muir, The Labyrinth.
Know what we are, remembering what we were. : Edwin Muir, The Horses.




Mary Hoggan

The smoke of that world is wholly gone.
Yet for some reason that escapes me,
smells of old wood remain, of blinds
tattered by time.  I breathe
this air, having breathed so many winds
that blew on walls torn down.
She’d say, A limpid dream,
had not her lips been sealed so long ago.
And I, still sitting just like then,
before the same frayed textbook
for beginners, tell her
—although she cannot hear—
with that same clumsy pronunciation:
Know what we are, remembering what we were.


A limpid dream: Edwin Muir, The Labyrinth.
Know what we are, remembering what we were. : Edwin Muir, The Horses.







No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario