Five Desolate Poems
...he imagines there is a harbour on the empty beach
AUSIAS MARCH, XCII, 57
I
Like a gorge without daylight or the whisper of gentle breezes, yearning for the stars and the flash of wings which will never leave their mark there, slowly wasting away without a single cry of hope... So do the days pass me by, bereft of my one-time song that cast patches of light on the rough track. If love was frustration, still its thorn was sweet to me and, like a blinded bird, pain led me to sing. But now the burden of love pressing down on a worn-out heart is merely loneliness, a fierce flame which silently devours a life consumed far from you, slowly, without a single cry of hope...
II
Like a wounded beast, to die alone, facing nothing but the sky, in the undergrowth it hurt so much to reach, beyond regret for ties now broken, past loathing for the final disappointment, the sorry poison that death requires... To die alone, eyes open wide on the joy of this great divestment. Sweet forgetfulness of the shaft which felled me, wretchedness for others, but also for me. Die alone, sparing my cry in the darkness: certain of the Light...
III
Desolate heart, a sail billowing in the evening breeze, pass swiftly through the siren's strait. If once you sail beyond it, you will evermore dream of it with impossible nostalgia. Desolate heart, oh to be a shipwrecked sailor in your eyes, free from memories of the distant homeland. Ardent helms of the glowing hours without sunsets or desire for any dawn. Desolate heart, bare empty rock, the prey of the wind, sun and water.
Cinc poemes desolats
I
Com un gorg sense llum ni remors d’aires tendres,
sospirós pels estels i l’esclat de les ales
que mai no el signaran i es morfon lentament
sense un crit d’esperança...,
així em passen els jorns, orfe d’aquell meu cant
que posava clarors en l’aspror del camí.
Si l’amor fou neguit, m’era dolça l’espina
i, com ocell orbat, el dolor m’era càntic.
Ara el feix de l’amor damunt el cor cansat
és només solitud
de la flama feroç devorant en silenci
la vida que es consum lluny de tu, lentament,
sense un crit d’esperança...
II
Com l’animal ferit, morir ben sola
de cara al cel només, dins la malesa
abastada amb dolor, fora recances
d’uns lligams ja trencats, passat el fàstic
del darrer desengany, trista metzina
necessària a la mort... Morir ben sola,
els ulls de bat a bat a l’alegria
del gran despullament. Dolç oblidar-se
del dard que m’aterrà, misèria d’altri
però meva també. Morir ben sola,
estalviar el meu crit en la tenebra:
certa de la Claror...
III
Cor desolat, vela al vent de la tarda,
passa rabent aquest freu de sirena.
Si l’has vençut, sempre més el teu somni
en sentirà la impossible enyorança.
Cor desolat, dins sos ulls qui fos nàufrag
sense records de la pàtria llunyana.
Timons ardents de les hores enceses
sense ponents ni desigs de cap alba.
Cor desolat, nua roca deserta,
presa del vent i del sol i de l’aigua.
La llibertat si ara és plor serà càntic,
cor desolat, en la vida més alta.
