octavio paz

A Song Out Of Tune

non visto color de buen verdigay
nin trobo discor ni fago deslay
Juan Alfonso de Baena

The day is short,
the hour long
Motionless I retrace its steps,
climbing its minor calvaries,
I descend on stairs made of air,
and am lost in transparent galleries
-but I don't find me,
and I don't see you.

The day is short,
the hour long.
I see my stubborn hand that writes
its circular words on the page,
I see my shadow on the page,
I see myself falling through the hour's blank center
-but I don't find you,
and I don't see me.

The day is short,
and the hour long.
Time drags on, hides, and peeks,
time is buried, clods of air,
time sprouts up, a column of air,
it bashes my forehead,
scrapes my lids
-but I don't find me,
and I don't see you.

The day is short,
the hour long.
I walk through lots and corridors and echoes,
my hands touch you and you suddenly vanish,
I look in your eyes and suddenly vanish,
the hour traces, erases, invents its reflections
-but I don't find you,
and I don't see me.

The day is short,
the hour long.
There is a seed asleep in time,
that explodes in the air with a burst of syllables,
it is a word, and it speaks without speaking
the names of time, yours and mine,
-but I don't find me,
and I don't see you.

Names are fruit that ripen and fall;
the hours immense, inside itself it falls.