| Jorge Luis Borges -Shinto- |
| miércoles, 13 de diciembre de 2006 |
Shinto
Cuando nos anonada la desdicha,
durante un segundo nos salvan
las aventuras ínfimas
de la atención o de la memoria:
el sabor de una fruta, el sabor del agua,
esa cara que un sueño nos devuelve,
los primeros jazmines de noviembre,
el anhelo infinito de la brújula,
un libro que creíamos perdido,
el pulso de un hexámetro,
la breve llave que nos abre una casa,
el olor de una biblioteca o del sándalo,
el nombre antiguo de una calle,
los colores de un mapa,
una etimología imprevista,
la lisura de la uña limada,
la fecha que buscábamos,
contar las doce campanadas oscuras,
un brusco dolor físico.
Ocho millones son las divinidades del Shinto
que viajan por la tierra, secretas.
Esos modestos númenes nos tocan,
nos tocan y nos dejan
Shinto
When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
that face given back to us by a dream,
the first jasmine of November,
the endless yearning of the compass,
a book we thought was lost,
the throb of a hexameter,
the slight key that opens a house to us,
the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
the former name of a street,
the colors of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date we were looking for,
the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
a sudden physical pain.
Eight million Shinto deities
travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us--
touch us and move on.Etiquetas: J. L. Borges |
posted by Bishop @ 12:20  |
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SHINTO
When reverses undo us,
for one second we are saved
by the least chance
attention or memory:
a fruit taste, the taste of water,
the face a dream returns,
November's first jasmine,
the compass's infinite longing,
a book we thought lost,
a hexameter's pulse,
the brief key that opens a house,
the smell of libraries and sandalwood,
an old streetname,
a map's colors,
an etymology unforeseen,
the sleekness of a filed nail,
the date we were looking for,
twelve dark tollings of the bell,
a brusque physical pain.
Eight million Shinto divinities
travel through the world, secretly.
These modest numen touch us,
touch and depart.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney
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SHINTO
When reverses undo us,
for one second we are saved
by the least chance
attention or memory:
a fruit taste, the taste of water,
the face a dream returns,
November's first jasmine,
the compass's infinite longing,
a book we thought lost,
a hexameter's pulse,
the brief key that opens a house,
the smell of libraries and sandalwood,
an old streetname,
a map's colors,
an etymology unforeseen,
the sleekness of a filed nail,
the date we were looking for,
twelve dark tollings of the bell,
a brusque physical pain.
Eight million Shinto divinities
travel through the world, secretly.
These modest numen touch us,
touch and depart.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney