My curse is to go gropingly with my fiery soul,
blind without a guide under the blue of January;
my sorrow, to wander alone along the way;
and the worst of my injuries, not understanding life.
My curse is to go blindly and alone with my history,
to find me here feeling the torturing light,
and that this heart is a transitory ember
burning in the pure night.
And to come unknowing, perhaps from some orient
that the soul in its blindness saw as a mirage,
and longing for the summer gilt by the refulgent sun
to go with fatal steps towards the fatal abyss.
Still, it would perhaps have a noble endeavor
to exalt my spirit under the burning vesper
like a holy perfume…
But if the heart is transitory ember!
I feel something like a perennial ardor, nevertheless,
which in the sterile battle my youth sacrifices…
(Oh night of the way, vast and sole,
between death and love!)
Porfirio Barba Jacob
Translated by Nicolás Suescún