era el comienzo de una silla::it was the beginning of a chair
Era el comienzo de una silla;
Era el sofá gris; era las paredes,
El jardín, el camino de gravilla; era la forma
En que caía sobre el pelo de ella la desvaída luz de la luna.
Era aquello y algo más. Era el viento que quería desgarrar
Los árboles; era el alboroto y el desorden de las nubes, la orilla
Con su escombro de estrellas. Era la hora que parecía decir
Que si supieras qué hora era de verdad, no volverías
A pedir nada. Eso era. En verdad, eso era.
También era lo que nunca ocurrió... Un momento tan pleno
Que cuando se fue, como tenía que ser, ninguna pena era tan grande
Como para contenerlo. Era la habitación que aparecía sin cambios
Tras tantos años. Era eso. Era el sombrero
Que se le olvidó llevar a ella, la pluma que se dejó en la mesa.
Era el sol en mi mano. Era el calor del sol. Era la forma
En que me sentaba, la forma en la que esperaba durante horas, días. Era eso. Solo eso.
Tormenta de uno, poemasColección Visor de Poesía, Visor Libros, Madrid (1997)
It was the beginning of a chair;
It was the gray couch; it was the walls,
The garden, the gravel road; it was the way
The ruined moonlight fell across her hair,
It was that, and it was more. It was the wind that tore
At the trees; it was the fuss and clutter of clouds, the shore
Littered with stars. It wa sthe hour which seemed to say
That if you knew what time it really was, you would not
Ask for anything again. It was that. It was certainly that.
It was also what never happened- a moment so full
That when it went, as it had to, no grief was large enough
To contain it. It was the room that appeared un changed
After so many years. It was that. It was the hat
She'd forgotten to take, the pen she left on the table.
It was the sun on my hand. It was the sun's heat. It was the way
I sat, the way I waited for hours, for days. It was that. Just that.
Tormenta de uno, poemasColección Visor de Poesía, Visor Libros, Madrid (1997)
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