La sabiduría del silencio

The Empty Days

The empty days, decayed adobe of years
Collapsed into their own emptiness,
Draught through a space unwon
For a hint of sense. A pile of newspapers growing
And ageing, layer by layer, like filthy snow.
Memories beaten from low-carat gold
And hallmarked by deliberate mistake. The
Empty days, winter on the withdrawal, defeat
Dosed as a drug: in the mornings and before
Sleep. The mill, gristless, obedient to the
Wheel’s turn, grinds moonlight. One last simile:
Ageing at a standstill, or engine out of gear.
And yet—
whoever gathers his thoughts in emptiness
As in a church, learns the wisdom of silence, and
Slips inside its tongue, dark and distinct, will not
Be silent for nothing. He will be like a marionette
Which sees its strings, and senses a motion
Outplaying emptiness and the moment the string breaks.
The blessing of the empty days: a lesson on the limits
Of rational misfortune. Our daily rule.
The empty days, decayed adobe of years.

Ivan V. Lalić (1989)

Translated by Francis R. Jones

(Publicado por The Times Literary Supplement aquí)

About Irad Nieto

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