LXXXIX
Algunos dicen que
una palabra muere
cuando se dice.
Yo digo que cobra vida
justo ese día.
XC
Venerar los días simples
que guían las estaciones,
solo exige recordar
que a ti o a mí
pueden quitarnos
eso nimio llamado inmortalidad.
Investir la existencia
de un aire majestuoso
solo exige recordar
que para el cielo
esa bellota que está allí
es el óvulo de los bosques.
XCI
Es tan poca cosa llorar,
tan breve es suspirar;
y sin embargo, según los oficios,
hombres y mujeres morimos
conforme a esas medidas.
Emily Dickinson, 1830- 1886, Amherst, Massachusetts.
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
(Tomados de su blog: "De sibilas y Pitias")
LXXXIX A word is dead/ When it is said,/ Some say./ I say it
just/ Begins to live / That day.
XC To venerate the simple days/ Which lead the seasons by,/ Needs but
to remember
That from you or me / They may take the trifle / Termed mortality! // To invest
existence with a stately air,/ Needs but to remember /That the acorn there/ Is
the egg of forests/ For the upper air!
XCI It’s such a little thing to weep,/ So short a thing to sigh;/ And
yet by trades the size of these/ We men and women die!
XC To venerate the simple days/ Which lead the seasons by,/ Needs but to remember
That from you or me / They may take the trifle / Termed mortality! // To invest existence with a stately air,/ Needs but to remember /That the acorn there/ Is the egg of forests/ For the upper air!
XCI It’s such a little thing to weep,/ So short a thing to sigh;/ And yet by trades the size of these/ We men and women die!
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