¿Adónde fueron ahogadas aquellas caricias,
perlas susurrantes que se llevó el viento?
¿A quien voló la marea,
como quien se lleva algo que no es suyo,
algo que siempre lo ha sido?

Tu lo sabes, Corsario;
Corsario traicionero,
tu amor son caricias que no tengo,
tu cariño son sonrisas denegadas.
Negaciones que no tengo,
amor cariñoso, sonrisas acariciadas.

Otros poetas nada saben,
nada saben de tus sueños, Corsario,
nada saben de tu cantar,
de tus canciones de ensueño,
tu dormir melódico.
Y sola aquí te espero, Corsario,
en el punto acordado al que no acudirás.
Y aquí te escribo, Corsario,
en el instante acordado en el que no aparecerás.
Y aquí te escribiré siempre, mi amor,
y mi cuerpo omnipresente llorará tu muerte.

//

Where did those caresses go drowned,
whispering pearls the wind took away?
¿Who did the tides fly,
like someone taking something that is not theirs,
something that always has been?

You know, Corsair;
treaterous Corsair,
your love are caresses I do not have,
your affection are denied smiles.
Denies I do not have,
affectionate love, caressed smiles.

Other poets nothing know,
nothing know of your dreams, Corsair,
nothing knkw of your singing,
of your dreamlike songs,
of your melodic dreams.
Alone here I wait for you, Corsair,
in the accorded point to which you will not come.
And here I write you, Corsair,
in the accorded instant in which you will not show up.
And here I will always write, my love,
and my omnipresent body will cry my death.
Prompted by "Adónde fueron despeñadas" by Cernuda
En medio de la soledad me vi pasar,
iba sola yo con mi abandono,
que no es mal compañero
pero es más bien callado;
cuando me vi pasar,
tan sola como yo misma,
tan pura pero tan perdida.
Llamé por mí pero no pude escucharme,
me tendí la mano pero no me alcancé
pues ya estaba lejos, me había ido,
me había muerto.

//

Among my solitude I saw myself passing,
I was alone with my abandonment,
who is not bad company
but is more on the silent side;
when I saw myself passing,
as lonely as myself,
so pure but so lost.
I called for me but I couldn't listen,
I reached for me but I couldn't catch you
for I was far, I was gone,
I was dead.
Promted by "En medio de la multitud" by Cernuda
Qué música tan triste hacen dos mentes cuando se aman,
se lloran, se caen, se meditan,
y los violines chirrían su suerte despiadada,
su perdición desdichada que se cae
y se cae, como el mar en la lluvia;
que precipita la cara del ahogado
que encalla y garantiza el grito del niño.

Qué música tan triste hace mi mente cuando te ama,
y tú no me amas, y el sol cae
sobre nosotros cuando me besas
y yo no siento nada,
pues no te amo,
mas los violines siguen eternos.

//

What a sad music two minds make when they love each other,
cry each other, fall each other, meditate each other,
and violins screech their ruthless luck,
their unhappy doom that falls
and falls, like the sea in the rain;
which precipitates tha face of the drowned
which runs aground and guarantees the scream of the child.

What a sad music my mind makes when it loves you,
and you don't love me, and the sun falls
over us when you kiss me
and I don't feel anything,
for I don't love you,
but the violins continue unending.
Somewhat promted by Cernudas "Que ruido más triste"
Esperaba algo, no sabía que.
La muerte susurraba sus canciones más bonitas
en mi boca de amante impura
y yo la besaba, jugando con ella,
sin llegar a amarle como ella me pedía,
sin llegar al sacrificio por ella deseado.
Pero ella me amaba y me ama,
y sus labios perfectos endulzan
poco a poco mi corazón incapaz de amor.
Tal vez este sea el primero.

//

I waited for something, I didn't know what.
Death whispered their most beautiful songs
in my mouth of impure lover
and I kissed them, playing with them,
not coming to love them like they asked me to,
not getting to the sacrifice wished by them.
But they loved me and love me,
and their perfect lips sweeten
little by little my heart uncapable of love.
Maybe this will be the first one.
Very slightly related to the short prose poetry "Esperaba solo" by Luis Cernuda
The sun makes me sneeze,
twice,
always.
Like Plato's prisoner I reach for the light
but I'm answered with closed eyes,
twice,
always.
Like Icarus I fly in my glory
only to fall to the unresting sea,
twice,
always.

I fall back on my seat,
a poet's seat,
and I write,
I write about the sun
and the cloud that just protected me
from the powerful influence on my nose.
I cry.
Funny thing, in English this word has two meanings
that not always go together.
I  could wheep, I could shout,
but I just cry,
twice,
always.
Midnight’s sun rains down
my face, my tears, my happiness
like shallow birds that fall
from the ground
causing earthquakes of joy
on my paintings,
on the glory of beauty;
because the day is high
the poet writes and
I fall into the sky
and spread my dreams
and go where you take me,
to whom hours wheep.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
"Sabiendo nada más que vivir es estar a solas con la muerte"
sabiendo que palpita en la sien la rabia
de la vida no descrita, tal vez pensada.
Sabiendo la amargura, de la muerte los colores
y la sangre.
¿Somos felices?

//

"Knowing that living is being alone with death nothing more"
knowing that in the temples pulses the rage
of life not described, maybe thought.
Knowing the bitterness, of death the colors
and the blood.
Are we happy?
Can't recall what poem this was in, but something in "One river, one love" by Cernuda
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