The Road Obscured by the Forest
Believe me, it isn’t pity I feel for you,
now that I’m gone, just a wounded memory.
For you and for the road obscured by the forest
that the youthful night would not let me follow,
exposed and perfumed like the flesh of a pine tree.
It isn’t pity, just a vague sense of failure,
a soft and endearing pain that won’t stop.
You were good to me in the days that followed:
the days when I fed myself the gentle poison
that causes me to struggle with the sea, with time,
and with the love of all those who love me well.
It isn’t pity, I still look for you in the flawless night,
yearning, hungry for your bitter colors,
your cool stars, your branches and rivers,
frozen now after those vast winter skies.
I am telling you this now, hurt, with tears in my eyes,
but with a mind that grown secure and serene:
I could never get closer to you because my lips
reached out to rub your snow, your horizon.
It isn’t pity, believe me; I just know that one late,
deep afternoon, I came down from that mountain,
pure and purified as a fire in June.
I decided to go back to you once and for all,
but I found the road obscured by the forest.
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2016
Photo by Aneta Ivanova