Estamos tan intoxicados uno del otro

Estamos tan intoxicados uno del otro
Que de improviso podríamos naufragar,
Este paraíso incomparable
Podría convertirse en terrible afección.
Todo se ha aproximado al crimen
Dios nos ha de perdonar
A pesar de la paciencia infinita
Los caminos prohibidos se han cruzado.
Llevamos el paraíso como una cadena bendita
Miramos en él, como en un aljibe insondable,
Más profundo que los libros admirables
Que surgen de pronto y lo contienen todo.
Anna Ajmátova
Versión de Jorge Bustamante García

J’ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses

J’ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses
Mais j’en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes
Que les nœuds trop serrés n’ont pu les contenir
Les nœuds ont éclaté. Les roses, envolés,
Dans le vent à la mer se son toutes allées.
Elles ont suivi l’eau pour ne plus revenir
La vague en paru rouge et comme enflammée
Ce soir, ma robe encore en est toute embaumée.
Respires en sur moi l’odorant souvenir.

Et la mer et l’amour ont l’amer pour partage
Et la mer est amère et l’amour est amer
L’on s’abîme en la amour aussi bien qu’en la mer
Car tous deux

Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

So many lives

Sometimes I get radiant drunk when I think of and/or look at you,
Upstaged by your life, with me in it.
And other mornings too
Your care is like a city, with the uncomfortable parts
Evasive, and difficult to connect with the plan
That was, and the green diagonals of the rain kind of
Fudging to rapidly involve everything that stood out,
And so in an illegal way, but it doesn’t matter,
It’s rapture that counts, and what little
There is of it is seldom aboveboard,
That’s its nature
That we take our cue from.
It masquerades a as worry, first, then as self-possession
In which I am numb, imagining I am this vision
Of ships stuck on the tarpaper of an urban main,
At night, coal stars glinting,
And you the ruby lights hung far above on pylons,
Seeming to own the night and the nearer reaches
Of a civilization we feel as ours,
The lining of our old doing.

I can walk away from you
Because I know I can always call, and in the end we will
Be irresolutely joined,
Laughing out of this alphabet of connivance
That never goes on too long, because outside
My city there is wind, and burning straws and other things that don’t coincidence,
To which we’ll be condemned, perhaps, some day.
Now our peace is in our assurance
And has that savor,
Its own blind deduction
Of whatever would become of us if
We were alone, to nurture in this shore some fable
To block out that other whose remote being
Becomes every day a little more sentient and more suavely realized.
I’ll believe it when the police pay you off.
In the meantime there are so many things not to believe in
We can make a hobby of them, as long as we continue to uphold
The principle of private property.
So, what if ours is planted with tin-can trees
It’s better than a forest full of parked cars whit the lights out,
Because the effort of staying back to side with someone
For whom number is everything
Will finally unplug the dark
And the black acacias stand out as symbols, lovers
Of what men will at last stop doing to each other
When we can be quiet, and start counting sheep to stay awake together.

John Ashbery