Are They All Happy?




The honor of living gloriously with honor,
The patriotism toward a nameless country,
The sacrifice, the obligation of yellow lips,
They’re not worth an iron devouring
Little by little some sad body because of themselves.

Below, then, virtue, order, misery;
beneath all, all, except defeat,
Defeat to the teeth, to that frozen space
Of a head split in two by solitude,
Knowing nothing more than that living is to be alone with death.

Nor can anyone expect that bird with a woman’s arms.
With the voice of man deliciously darkened,
Because a bird, although loved,
Doesn’t merit waiting for, like some monarch who
Awaits the maturing of his towers to rotten fruit.

We may cry alone,
May cry to an eternal wave,
To sink so many skies,
Touching then solitudes with dissected hand.

Luis Cernuda