ESTAMPA DE INVIERNO

(Nieve)

¿Dónde se han escondido los colores

en este dia negro y blanco?

La fronda, negra; el agua, gris; el cielo

y la tierra, de un blanquinegro pálido;

y la ciudad doliente

una vieja aguafuerte de romántico.

El que camina, negro;

negro el medroso pájaro

que atraviesa el jardin como una flecha ...

Rasta el silencio es duro y despintado.

La tarde cae. El cielo

no tiene ni un dulzor. En el ocaso,

un vago amarillor casi esplendente,

que casi no lo es. Lejos, el campo

de hierro seco.

Y entra la noche, como

un entierro; enlutado

y frío todo, sin estrellas, blanca

y negra, como el día negro y blanco.

J.R. Jiménez

WINTER SCENE

(Snow)

Where have the colors all gone to

today, that is so black and white?

The leaves black, the water gray, the sky

and the ground a sort of faded white and black,

and the mournful city

is like an old steel engraving by some roman tic.

The man who is walking is black,

the startled bird is black

shooting across the garden like an arrow . . .

Even the silence is harsh and faded.

Dusk falls. There is nothing gentle

about the sky. In the west, an indecisive

yellow light that almost glitters

and almost doesn't. Over there, fields

like dry iron.

' And the night comes, like

a burial; it is all wrapped in black

and cold, no stars, all white

and black, like the black and white day.

J.R. Jiménez

Journey of the Magi

‘A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.'

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their Iiquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the Iack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices :

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel aII night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow Iine, smelling ofvegetation,

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the

darkness,

And three trees on the Iow sky.

And an oId white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place ; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for .

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were diff.erent; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, Iike Death, our death.

We returne to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

T.S.Eliot 

canandanann 26-08-2010

blog:  http://waarnemingvandewerkelijkheid.blogspot.com

paintings: http://landscape.canandanann.nl