Huracán
por Mary Oliver
No se comportó
 |
| Mary Oliver |
puedas imaginar. El viento
desgarró los árboles, la lluvia
cayó durante días fuerte
y sesgada. El dorso de
la mano sobre todas las cosas.
Vi a los árboles doblarse y sus hojas
caer y volver a la tierra. Y eso
fue todo. Y este fue un solo huracán
que sobrellevé, el otro fue de una
clase diferente, y duró más. Entonces
sentí mis propias hojas ceder
y caerse. El dorso de la mano
sobre todas las cosas. Pero
escuchá lo que le pasó a los
árboles: hacia el final de ese verano
soltaron hojas nuevas de sus ramas
cortadas. Era la temporada incorrecta, sí,
pero no pudieron detenerse. Parecían
postes de teléfono, y no les importaba.
Y después de las hojas llegaron los pimpollos.
Porque para algunas cosas
no hay temporadas incorrectas,
que es lo que sueño que me pase a mí.
Traducción: Irene Ocampo
Hurricane
by: Mary Oliver
It didn't behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn't stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn't
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
which is what I dream of for me.
by: Mary Oliver
It didn't behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn't stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn't
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
which is what I dream of for me.
