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

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Julio Cortázar

Los amantes

¿Quién los ve andar por la ciudad
si todos están ciegos?
Ellos se toman de la mano: algo habla
entre sus dedos, lenguas dulces
lamen la húmeda palma, corren por las falanges,
y arriba está la noche llena de ojos.

Son los amantes, su isla flota a la deriva
hacia muertes de césped, hacia puertos
que se abren entre sábanas.
Todo se desordena a través de ellos,
todo encuentra su cifra escamoteada;
pero ellos ni siquiera saben
que mientras ruedan en su amarga arena
hay una pausa en la obra de la nada,
el tigre es un jardín que juega.

Amanece en los carros de basura,
empiezan a salir los ciegos,
el ministerio abre sus puertas.
Los amantes rendidos se miran y se tocan
una vez más antes de oler el día.
Ya están vestidos, ya se van por la calle.
Y es sólo entonces
cuando están muertos, cuando están vestidos,
que la ciudad los recupera hipócrita
y les impone los deberes cotidianos.

The Lovers

Who sees them walking through the city
If they all are blind?
They go walking hand in hand: something speaks
Between their fingers, sweet tongues
Lick the humid palm, running through the phalanxes,
And above is the sky full of eyes.

They are the lovers, their island floats away drifting
Towards the death of grass, towards ports
That open between sheets.
All is disordered through them,
All things find their stolen figure;
But they do not even know
That while they roll around in the bitter sand
There is a pause in the work of nothingness,
The tiger is a garden that plays.

It awakes in carts of garbage,
The blind begin to walk about,
The ministry opens its doors.
The defeated lovers look at each other and touch
One more time before smelling the day.
They are dressed now, now they walk down the street.
And it is only then
When they are dead, when they are dressed,
That the city steals them away again hypocritically
And imposes on them daily chores.


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