Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

*

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

This is musicality being butchered.
Always more interested in the song of despair, but I feel like giving this another try due to someone's review, and after many years.

April 24, 19

*

Sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Again, three stars. A bit tragic, despite being able to appreciate - in a way I couldn't before - Neruda's lyricism and its natural voluptuousness, especially considering he wrote this collection when he was only 19.

Pensando, enredando sombras en la profunda soledad.
Tú también estás lejos, ah más lejos que nadie.
Pensando, soltando pájaros, desvaneciendo imágenes,
enterrando lámparas.

*

Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.

from Poem XVII

The rest of the experience remains intact. But I sensed it. This is the kind of poetry I can relate to; the intensity and sentimentality I can bear:

Lo perdido
¿Dónde estará mi vida, la que pudo
haber sido y no fue, la venturosa
o la de triste horror, esa otra cosa
que pudo ser la espada o el escudo

y que no fue? ¿Dónde estará el perdido
antepasado persa o el noruego,
dónde el azar de no quedarme ciego,
dónde el ancla y el mar, dónde el olvido

de ser quien soy? ¿Dónde estará la pura
noche que al rudo labrador confía
el iletrado y laborioso día,

según lo quiere la literatura?
Pienso también en esa compañera
que me esperaba, y que tal vez me espera.

*

What is lost
I wonder where my life is, the one that could
have been and never was, the daring one
or the one of gloomy dread, that other thing
which could as well have been the sword or shield

but never was? I wonder where is my lost
Persian or Norwegian ancestor,
where is the chance of my not being blind,
where is the anchor, the ocean, where the forgetting

to be who I am? I wonder where the pure
night is that the unlettered working day
entrusts to the rough laborer so that he

can also feel the love of literature
I also think about a certain companion
who waited for me once, perhaps still waits.

Love poem by Jorge Luis Borges



April 26, 19
* Later on .