Después de estar, al día siguiente, asumimos el ocaso.
Pudimos asegurarnos de las sombras, luego vendría la noche.
Recuerdo aquello, junto a la almohada: 'al sol sólo lo podemos mirar de cara cuando se va'.
Recuerdo el precipicio de luz de aquella serena tarde a su final.
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Por lo que se presiente, un atardecer excepcional.
Soy, como has visto en tu visita a mi blog, de la estepa y estoy acostumbrado a amaneceres y atardeceres impresionantes, pero siempre me vuelven a impresionar. Me gusta mirar al sol cuando se deja. Un saludo.
Mirar al sol a la cara siempre es un desafío, el precio de no poder hacerlo es como bien dices, después de estar: el ocaso.
Precipicios de luz, avances de las sombras, agonía de la serena tarde, retazos del recuerdo siempre vivo, como forma de asegurarnos que no estamos muertos.
Se deslizan los atardeceres hacia ese precipicio. Imposible aferrarse a esa marea de luz. Solo permanecer en pie, mirando la línea suavemente incendidada del horizonte y desear que el milagro acuda puntual a su cita al día siguiente...
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thougt, rises,
In the bronze distance.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
(Of Mere Being, Wallace Stevens)
La palmera al extremo de la mente
Se eleva más allá del pensamiento,
En la extensión de bronce.
Un pájaro de plumas doradas
Canta allí una canción extranjera,
No destinada al hombre, sin sentimiento humano.
Entonces tú comprendes que no es ésa
La razón que nos hace felices o infelices.
Canta el pájaro. Sus plumas resplandecen.
La palmera está al borde del espacio.
En las ramas se mueve el viento lentamente.
El plumaje del pájaro pende llameante.
(De la simple existencia, Wallace Stevens)
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thougt, rises,
In the bronze distance.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
(Of Mere Being, Wallace Stevens)
La palmera al extremo de la mente
Se eleva más allá del pensamiento,
En la extensión de bronce.
Un pájaro de plumas doradas
Canta allí una canción extranjera,
No destinada al hombre, sin sentimiento humano.
Entonces tú comprendes que no es ésa
La razón que nos hace felices o infelices.
Canta el pájaro. Sus plumas resplandecen.
La palmera está al borde del espacio.
En las ramas se mueve el viento lentamente.
El plumaje del pájaro pende llameante.
(De la simple existencia, Wallace Stevens)
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thougt, rises,
In the bronze distance.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
(Of Mere Being, Wallace Stevens)
La palmera al extremo de la mente
Se eleva más allá del pensamiento,
En la extensión de bronce.
Un pájaro de plumas doradas
Canta allí una canción extranjera,
No destinada al hombre, sin sentimiento humano.
Entonces tú comprendes que no es ésa
La razón que nos hace felices o infelices.
Canta el pájaro. Sus plumas resplandecen.
La palmera está al borde del espacio.
En las ramas se mueve el viento lentamente.
El plumaje del pájaro pende llameante.
(De la simple existencia, Wallace Stevens)
Me han cautivado esos precipicios de luz. ¿Dónde esa belleza que emana de tus palabras? ¿Dónde el lugar, la luz, el ocaso?
En la teoría solar, Sísifo y su piedra simbolizan al sol que sale por la mañana y se pierde en el horizonte. Tras el ocaso, un nuevo amanecer, y ambos son simas, precipicios de luz.
La oscuridad sólo es un intervalo, acaso el precio a pagar por la belleza fugaz de la luz del alba y del crepúsculo.
Princesa, mis respetos a la serena y delicada tinta de tu pluma.
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