lunes, 3 de octubre de 2016

André Breton traducido al inglés por David Antin

Christopher Felver/Corbis

At the depths of the parasol I see the marvelous prostitutes
On the side near the street lamps their gowns are the color of polished wood
They are walking a great piece of wallpaper
At which one cannot look without that choking feeling about the heart of 
     ancient floors in buildings being demolished
Where a slab of marble lies fallen from the fireplace
And a skein of chains is tangled in the mirrors
A great instinct toward combustion rises from the street where they walk
Like scorched flowers
Their distant eyes raising a gale of stones
As they sink motionless to the center of the whirlpool
Nothing equals for me the sense of their useless thought
The freshness of the gutters where their little boots bathe the shadows of their
The reality of their wrists of fresh cut hay into which they disappear
I see their breasts which seize a point out of this profound night
Where the time for lying down and the time for getting up are the only
     precise measures of life
I see their breasts that are stars over waves
Their breasts in which the invisible blue milk cries as ever

No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario