Sea in the Earth
No, don’t clamor for that hasty joy
that is latent when the dark music doesn’t vary,
when the dark stream passes indecipherable
like a river that scorns its landscape.
Happiness doesn’t consist in the wringing of hands
while the world vacillates on its axis,
while light turned to paper
senses that a wind ruffles it smiling.
Maybe the clamorous sea that in a shoe
will attempt to accommodate itself
one night,
the infinite sea that wanted to be a dew,
that claimed to rest on a sleeping flower,
that wanted to awaken like a fresh tear.
The resonant sea turned into a spear
lays in the dryness like a drowning fish,
clamors for that water that could be a kiss,
that could be a chest that rends and drowns.
But the dry moon doesn’t respond to the reflection
of pallid scales.
Death is a contraction of a glassy pupil,
it’s the impossibility of agitating arms,
of raising to the sky a cry that will wound.
Death is the silence in dust, in memory,
it’s grimly stirring a language not of man,
it’s sensing that salt curdles coldly in veins
like an intensely white tree in a fish.
And so joy, the dark joy of dying,
of understanding that the world is a grain that will dissolve,
that was born for a divine water,
for that immense sea that lays over dust.
Joy will consist in undoing the minuscule,
in transforming into a sharp thorn,
rest of an ocean that like the light departed,
grain of sand that was a gigantic chest
that exited the throat lying here like a sob.
Vicente Aleixandre
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
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