1
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner;
I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray stars dogs and the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray stars dogs and the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
1
La inútil alba me halla en una esquina desierta; he sobrevivido a la noche.
Las noches son orgullosas olas: olas de un azul oscuro cargadas de todas las
tonalidades de profundos despojos, cargadas de cosas improbables y deseables.
Las noches tienen la costumbre de los misteriosos dones y negativas, de cosas
medio dadas, medio retenidas, de alegrías con un hemisferio oscuro. Las noches
suelen actuar así, te digo.
El ansia, en aquella noche, me dejó con los consabidos jirones y despojos:
algunos odiados amigos con quienes conversar, música para los sueños, y el
humear de amargas cenizas. Cosas que no le sirven a mi hambriento corazón.
La gran ola te trajo.
Palabras, toda clase de palabras, tu risa; y vos, tan lánguida e incesantemente
bella. Hablamos, y te olvidaste de las palabras.
El alba desgarradora me encuentra en una calle desierta de mi ciudad.
Tu perfil dándome la espalda, los sonidos que se unen para hacer tu nombre, la
cadencia de tu risa: son ilustres juguetes que me dejaste.
Los dejo en el alba, los pierdo, los encuentro; los muestro a los pocos perros
vagabundos y las pocas estrellas vagabundas del alba.
Tu oscura y rica vida...
Debo alcanzarte, de algún modo; dejé esos ilustres juguetes que me dejaste. Quiero tu mirada escondida, tu sonrisa verdadera: esa sonrisa burlona y solitaria que tu frío espejo conoce.
