Jon Juaristi (1951- )

Rosario

Yo la quería mucho, pero entonces
amar y destruir sonaban parecido,
como en los más confusos poemas de Aleixandre.
Nos casamos con otros. Tal vez así perdimos
lo mejor de la vida. Quén sabe. Hubo una noche
en que ambos acordamos que pudo ser distinto
el rumbo de esta historia de culpa y cobardía.
Se quitó el pasador de su cabello oscuro
y me lo dio al marchar, y nunca volví a verla.
Murió. No lo he sabido hasta que esta tarde misma,
varios años después, en su pequeño pueblo
y frente a la serena desolación del mar.
Ahora intento evocarla, pero se desvanece:
No he encontrado siquiera su pasador de rafia.

Rosario

I loved her very much, but then
to love and to destroy sounded similar,
like in the most complex poems of Aleixandre.
We married other people. Maybe that's how we lost
the best part of our lives. Who knows. There was a night
when we both agreed that it could be different,
the path of this history of guilt and cowardice.
She took the hairpin from her dark hair
and gave it to me as she left, and never came back for it.
She died. I did not know until this afternoon,
several years later, she died in her little village,
and facing the serene desolation of the sea.
I would like to evoke her now, but she has disappeared:
I haven't even been able to find her raffia hairpin.