Lady
Lady,
your breasts are two little girls jostling each other in play when you wash.
The rainbow of your glance is suspended in the lather.
To look at you one wouldn’t guess you suffer,
wouldn’t know that at the foot of your washtub you hoard part of your story.
You give a whistle,
your whistle is a thread where you will hang your tiredness.
The wind
is a mischievous lad who tugs and tugs at your laundry.
On the trees of the east
the sun is a newborn baby scattering his warm yellow tears.
Juana de Ibarbourou (1892-1979; trans. Carlos Reyes)
Running Water
This water that comes
through the dark nerves of piping,
to give its pure freshness to my house
and the gift of cleanliness every day.
This bubbling water
that the faucet bestows,
this swelling of deep mystery
from the river bed, the wind and grass.
I view with envious impatience
this traveling wave that is my sister,
that has come to the big city
from some distant unknown meadow.
And halted before this open faucet
sprinkling my apron with beads,
I feel upon me the loving look
of a thousand clear eyes of water.
No comments:
Post a Comment