The Sarabite: Towards an Aesthetic Christianity

There is a continuous attraction, beginning with God, going to the world, and ending at last with God, an attraction which returns to the same place where it began as though in a kind of circle. -Marsilio Ficino

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Autumn

El Dios Triste
por
Gabriela Mistral


Mirando la alameda, de otoño lacerada,
la alameda profunda de vejez amarilla,
como cuando camino por la hierba segada
busco el rostro de Dios y palpo su mejilla.

Y en esta tarde lenta como una hebra de llanto
por la alameda de oro y de rojez
yo siento un Dios de otoño,
un Dios sin ardor y sin canto
¡y lo conozco triste, lleno de desaliento!

Y pienso que tal vez Aquel tremendo y fuerte Señor,
al que cantara de locura embriagada,
no existe, y que mi Padre que las mañanas vierte
tiene la mano laxa, la mejilla cansada.

Se oye en su corazòn un rumor de alameda de otoño:
el desgajarse de la suma tristeza;
su mirada hacia mí como lágrima rueda
y esa mirada mustia me inclina la cabeza.

Y ensayo otra plegaria para este Dios doliente,
plegaria que del polvo del mundo no ha subido:
"Padre, nada te pido, pues te miro a la frente
y eres inmenso, ¡inmenso!, pero te hallas herido."

The Sorrowful God

Looking at the boulevard, of the scarred autumn,
The deep boulevard of elderly yellow,
As when I walk in the harvested wheat,
I look for the face of God and pat His cheek.

And this slow afternoon like a thread of weeping
Through the boulevard of gold and red, I feel
A God of autumn, a God without feeling and without song,
And I meet him sad, full of discouragement!

And I think that maybe this awesome and strong
Lord, to whom I would sing with drunken folly,
Does not exist, and my Father who unleashes the mornings
Has a lax hand and tired cheek.

A rumor in his heart is heard of the boulevard
Of autumn: the flowing out of the highest sadness;
His gaze turns to me like a tear,
And that moist gaze makes me bow my head.

And I try another prayer to this suffering God,
A prayer that has not risen from the dust of the world:
"Father, I ask you for nothing,
For I am looking into your face,
And you are immense,
Immense, but you have been wounded".