 |
| "Lágrima de oro" por Anne Marie Zilberman (Detalle) |
Tears, Idle Tears.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
********************************
Lágrimas, ociosas lágrimas
Lágrimas, ociosas lágrimas, no sé lo que quieren decir,
Lágrimas que de lo profundo de alguna decepción divina
Ascienden en el corazón, y se reúnen en los ojos,
En busca de los campos de otoño felices,
Y pensando en los días que ya nunca serán.
Frescas como el primer fulgor de la vela,
Convocando a nuestros amigos del inframundo,
Convocando a nuestros amigos del inframundo,
Tristes como el último rubor del único (el sol)
Que se hunde con todos amamos por debajo del borde;
Tan tristes, tan frescas, que los días ya nunca serán.
Ah! triste y extraño como oscuro amanecer en verano,
Los primeros silbidos de pájaros a medio-despertar
Se posan sobre los oídos moribundos, junto a los desahuciados
ojos
Lentamente en la persiana crece el resplandor
Tan triste, tan extraño, que los días ya nunca serán.
Preciadas como el recordar los besos tras la muerte,
Y dulces como la inútil utopía fingida
En los labios que son para otros, profundas como el amor,
Profundas como el primer amor, y salvajes con absoluto
lamento;
Oh! La muerte en vida, por los días que ya nunca serán.
Interpretación y traducción por DRYELL.
********************************
Anne Marie Zylberman es una pintora francesa que dedica su arte pictórico a las mujeres.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario