arte poética
Arte poéticaMirar el río hecho de tiempo y aguaY recordar que el tiempo es otro río,Saber que nos perdemos como el ríoY que los rostros pasan como el agua.Sentir que la vigilia es otro sueñoQue sueña no soñar y que la muerteQue teme nuestra carne es esa muerteDe cada noche, que se llama sueño.Ver en el día o en el añoDe los días del hombre y de sus años,Convertir el ultraje de los añosEn una música, un rumor y un símbolo.
Ver en la muerte el sueño, en el ocasoUn triste oro, tal es la poesíaQue es inmortal y pobre. La poesíaVuelve como la aurora y el ocaso.A veces en la tarde una caraNos mira desde el fondo de un espejo;El arte debe ser como ese espejoQue nos revela nuestra propia cara.Cuentan que Ulises, harto de prodigios,Lloró de amor al divisar su ItacaVerde y humilde. El arte es esa ItacaDe verde eternidad, no de prodigios.También es como el río interminableQue pasa y queda y es cristal de un mismoHeráclito inconstante, que es el mismoY es otro, como el río interminable.Jorge Luis BorgesArgentina (1899-1986)
Ars Poetica
To look at the river made of time and water
And remember that time is another river,
To know that we are lost like the river
And that faces dissolve like water.
To feel the vigil as another dream
That dreams it does not dream and the death
that fears our flesh is the death
Each night, which is called sleep.
To see in the day or in the year a symbol
From the days of man and his years,
To transmute the outrage of the years
In music, rumor, and a symbol.
To see in death the dream, in the sunset
A sad gold, so is poetry
immortal and poor. Poetry
returns like dawn and dusk.
Sometimes in the afternoon a face
Looks at us out of the depths of a mirror;
Art should be like that mirror
Which reveals our own face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
Wept tears of love at the sight of his Ithaca
Green and humble. Art is that Ithaca
Of green eternity, not wonders.
It is also like an endless river
That passes and remains and is the mirror of the same
Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
And another, like an endless river.
Jorge Luis Borges
Argentina (1899-1986)
To look at the river made of time and water
And remember that time is another river,
To know that we are lost like the river
And that faces dissolve like water.
To feel the vigil as another dream
That dreams it does not dream and the death
that fears our flesh is the death
Each night, which is called sleep.
To see in the day or in the year a symbol
From the days of man and his years,
To transmute the outrage of the years
In music, rumor, and a symbol.
To see in death the dream, in the sunset
A sad gold, so is poetry
immortal and poor. Poetry
returns like dawn and dusk.
Sometimes in the afternoon a face
Looks at us out of the depths of a mirror;
Art should be like that mirror
Which reveals our own face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
Wept tears of love at the sight of his Ithaca
Green and humble. Art is that Ithaca
Of green eternity, not wonders.
It is also like an endless river
That passes and remains and is the mirror of the same
Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
And another, like an endless river.
Jorge Luis Borges
Argentina (1899-1986)
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