somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Éste es –yo creo, quizá junto con Tabaquería de Fernando Pessoa, mi poema favorito. Sobre todo me encanta el último verso. El poema aparece también en una de mis películas favoritas: Hannah and Her Sisters, de Woody Allen. Lo he puesto aquí porque ando 1/2 cursi. Así que se aguantan.
Bueno, ya me voy al psicoanalista, pero otro día hablaré más de esta película y de WA y FP y de otras cosas que me gustan, que –auque no lo crean, no todo el tiempo me estoy lamentando de todo. Ahora sólo les recomiendo leer un poco de e.e. cummings. Seguro también les va a gustar.
