A little poem about Death, originally written in Spanish
Posted: July 30th, 2010, 11:26 am
Sunset
Translation December 18, 2009
We do not fear the Moon, cold and delicate;
we contemplate her as we would an absent-minded mistress.
courting her without fear,
aware there is no menace in her blue glance,
nor pain in her absence.
The Sun, that magical source of light and heat—
robust, arrogant,
showers life itself onto the earth,
creating and giving substance to our existence,
at times our punishment, at times our blessing,
but always, always, our destiny.
How many innocent beings we have sacrificed without pity
In our terror that He will abandon us!
Each evening we watch entranced as the mighty disc
slowly fades below the horizon, casting its last rays
against clouds that bleed scarlet
or shine with gold,
seas that reflect long incandescent trails
of astounding beauty,
filling our eyes with promises of eternal life
and our primitive memories with insecurity.
Will the Sun rise again tomorrow
to awaken the rose to her glory
and the mockingbird to his song?
Shall I feel its presence slide through the window from the garden
to kiss my face, lick my eyelids
with little tongues of light?
Will there be a sunrise for me tomorrow?
Translation December 18, 2009
We do not fear the Moon, cold and delicate;
we contemplate her as we would an absent-minded mistress.
courting her without fear,
aware there is no menace in her blue glance,
nor pain in her absence.
The Sun, that magical source of light and heat—
robust, arrogant,
showers life itself onto the earth,
creating and giving substance to our existence,
at times our punishment, at times our blessing,
but always, always, our destiny.
How many innocent beings we have sacrificed without pity
In our terror that He will abandon us!
Each evening we watch entranced as the mighty disc
slowly fades below the horizon, casting its last rays
against clouds that bleed scarlet
or shine with gold,
seas that reflect long incandescent trails
of astounding beauty,
filling our eyes with promises of eternal life
and our primitive memories with insecurity.
Will the Sun rise again tomorrow
to awaken the rose to her glory
and the mockingbird to his song?
Shall I feel its presence slide through the window from the garden
to kiss my face, lick my eyelids
with little tongues of light?
Will there be a sunrise for me tomorrow?
Awwww!