Elegy For A Park
The labyrinth disappeared. The measured rows
of eucalyptuses have also vanished,
striped canopies of summer and the eternal
sleeplessness of the mirror, that repeats
every dumbshow of every human face,
every ephemeron. The stopped clock,
the matted tangle of the honeysuckle,
the glorieta with its silly statues,
the other side of evening, a bird's trill,
the turret and the indolence of the fountain,
are all particulars of the past. The past?
If there is no beginning and no end,
if what there is in store for us is only
an infinite sum of white days and black nights,
we are already the past that we shall be.
We are time, the indivisible river,
we are Uxmal, and Carthage, and the broken
wall of the Romans, long since worn away,
and the lost park these lines commemorate.
Translated by Robert Mezey and Richard Barnes
The labyrinth is lost. Lost too
all those lines of eucalyptus,
the summer awnings and the vigil
of the incessant mirror, repeating
the expression of every human face,
everything fleeting. The stopped
clock, the tangled honeysuckle,
the arbour, the frivolous statues,
the other side of evening, the trills,
the mirador and the idle fountain
are things of the past. Of the past?
If there’s no beginning, no ending,
and if what awaits us is an endless
sum of white days and black nights,
we are already the past we become.
We are time, the indivisible river,
are Uxmal, Carthage and the ruined
walls of the Romans and the lost
park that these lines commemorate.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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