by Jaime Sabines (translation by Robert David Cohen)
With nerves coming out of my body like rags,
like straws from an old broom,
and the bundle of my soul on the floor, still crawling,
everything exhausted, more than my own legs,
tired of using my heart every day,
here I am on this bed, at this hour,
waiting for the collapse
the imminent fall that will bury me.
(Close your eyes as if to sleep
Mustn’t move a leaf of your body.
This can happen at any moment:
Be quiet now.
Handkerchiefs of air turn slowly
heavy shadows scrape the walls,
the sky sucks you through the ceiling.)
Tomorrow you’ll have to get up again
to walk among people.
And you will love the sun and the cold,
the cars, the trains,
the dress shops and the stables,
the walls where lovers are pasted
like decals when evening falls,
the lonely parks where misfortune strolls,
head hanging, and where dreams sit down to rest
and some guy reaches for love under a skirt
while an ambulance siren marks the hour
to enter death’s factory.
You will love the miraculous city and, inside her, the field of dreams,
the river of avenues lit by so many people wanting the same thing,
the open doors of bars, the surprises of bookstores,
the flower shop, the barefoot kids
who don’t want to be heroes of misery,
and the awnings, the advertisements,
the rush of people going nowhere.
You’ll love the asphalt and the skylights
and the drainage pumps and cranes
and the palaces and luxury hotels
and the lawns of homes with guard dogs
and two or three people who are also going to die.
You will love the smell of food stands
attracting the hungry like beacons every night,
and your head will spin around to the perfume
a woman leaves hanging in the air like a boa.
And you’ll love the amusement parks
where the poor go for vertigo and laughter,
and the zoo where everyone feels important,
and the hospital where pain creates more brothers
than poverty can make,
and the daycare centers where children are playing,
and everywhere tenderness sprouts like a stalk
and every last thing has you saying thank you.
Run your hand over the furniture’s skin,
wipe off the dust you let fall on the mirrors.
Everywhere, seeds want to be born.
(Like a scarlet fever, life will suddenly burst from you.)
From Poemas sueltos (1951 - 1961)
