Valentine?

Anonymous — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 15:39:22 GMT

LOS AMOROSOS

Los amorosos callan.
El amor es el silencio mÃ¡s fino,
el mÃ¡s tembloroso, el mÃ¡s insoportable.
Los amorosos buscan,
los amorosos son los que abandonan,
son los que cambian, los que olvidan.
Su corazÃ³n les dice que nunca han de encontrar,
no encuentran, buscan.

Los amorosos andan como locos
porque estÃ¡n solos, solos, solos,
entregÃ¡ndose, dÃ¡ndose a cada rato,
llorando porque no salvan al amor.
Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos
viven al dÃa, no pueden hacer mÃ¡s, no saben.
Siempre se estÃ¡n yendo,
siempre, hacia alguna parte.
Esperan,
no esperan nada, pero esperan.
Saben que nunca han de encontrar.
El amor es la prÃ³rroga perpetua,
siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro.
Los amorosos son los insaciables,
los que siempre Â¡quÃ© bueno! han de estar solos.

Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento.
Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos.
Las venas del cuello se les hinchan
tambiÃ©n como serpientes para asfixiarlos.
Los amorosos no pueden dormir
porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos.

En la obscuridad abren los ojos
y les cae en ellos el espanto.

Encuentran alacranes bajo la sÃ¡bana
y su cama flota como sobre un lago.

Los amorosos son locos, sÃ³lo locos,
sin Dios y sin diablo.

Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas
temblorosos, hambrientos,
a cazar fantasmas.
Se rÃen de las gentes que lo saben todo,
de las que aman a perpetuidad, verÃdicamente,
de las que creen en el amor como en una lÃ¡mpara de inagotable aceite.

Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua,
a tatuar el humo, a no irse.
Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor.
Nadie ha de resignarse.
Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse.
Los amorosos se avergÃ¼enzan de toda conformaciÃ³n.

VacÃos, pero vacÃos de una a otra costilla,
la muerte les fermenta detrÃ¡s de los ojos,
y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada
en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente.

Les llega a veces un olor a tierra reciÃ©n nacida,
a mujeres que duermen con la mano en el sexo, complacidas,
a arroyos de agua tierna y a cocinas.

Los amorosos se ponen a cantar entre labios
una canciÃ³n no aprendida.
Y se van llorando, llorando
la hermosa vida.

- Jaime Sabines

The Lovers

The lovers say nothing.
Love is the finest of the silences,
the one that trembles most and is hardest to bear.
The lovers are looking for something.
The lovers are the ones who abandon,
the ones who change, who forget.
Their hearts tell them that they will never find.
They don't find, they're looking.

The lovers wander around like crazy people
because they're alone, alone,
surrendering, giving themselves to each moment,
crying because they don't save love.
They worry about love. The lovers
live for the day, it's the best they can do, it's all they know.
They're going away all the time,
all the time, going somewhere else.
They hope,
not for anything in particular, they just hope.
They know that whatever it is they will not find it.
Love is the perpetual deferment,
always the next step, the other, the other.
The lovers are the insatiable ones,
the ones who must always, fortunately, be alone.

The lovers are the serpent in the story.
They have snakes instead of arms.
The veins in their necks swell
like snakes too, suffocating them.
The lovers can't sleep
because if they do the worms ear them.

They open their eyes in the dark
and terror falls into them.

They find scorpions under the sheet
and their bed floats as though on a lake.

The lovers are crazy, only crazy
with no God and no devil.

The lovers come out of their caves
trembling, starving,
chasing phantoms.
They laugh at those who know all about it,
who love forever, truly,
at those who believe in love as an inexhaustible lamp.

The lovers play at picking up water,
tattooing smoke, at staying where they are.
They play the long sad game of love.
None of them will give up.
The lovers are ashamed to reach any agreement.

Empty, but empty from one rib to another,
death ferments them behind the eyes,
and on they go, they weep toward morning
in the trains, and the roosters wake into sorrow.

Sometimes a scent of newborn earth reaches them,
of women sleeping with a hand on their sex, contented,
of gentle streams, and kitchens.

The lovers start singing between their lips
a song that is not learned.
And they go on crying, crying
for beautiful life.

- Jaime Sabines

Translated by W.S. Merwin

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Valentine?