POEM OF THE GIRL FROM VELÁZQUEZ
Ah, if only the village were so small
that all the streets passed by my door.
I wish I had a window
that would be the center of the world,
and a sorrow
like that of the magnolia-flower,
which darkens when you touch it.
Why does the village not have a wall
until the day of her death,
or a turbulent river encircling it
to guard the girl from Velazquez.
Ah, her steps are like the dove's,
for friendship's sake I always imagine her alone,
holding in one of her hands a balloon
full of water
in which the fragility of destiny can be seen
and the continuity of life.
is so gentle that in its atmosphere
sad grief heals,
as also in poems:
from her hair
the night is born,
and the dawn from her hands.
What piety, or sweetness, will they be used to,
the things she looks at
or things familiar to her,
like the incense,
with which I look at her.
Why doesn't the village have
there, behind it,
so that the landscape her eyes see
and she never grows tired of looking at it.
I know her goodness
has more hours than the day,
and that all her thoughts pass between dawn
The days that pass make her grow.
What horizon will be closest
to her heart,
so that I can take each of my steps
although hope stays barefoot.
Who will rescue her from chastity,
while I hope only
that in her voice,
some day, she comes to hear me...
Ricardo E. Molinari
Translation by Inés Probert