Hoy paso el tiempo leyendo
un haiku favorito,
diciendo las pocas palabras una y otra vez.
Es como comer
la misma uva pequeña, perfecta
sin cesar.
Camino por la casa recitándolo
y dejo que sus letras caigan
por el aire de cada habitación.
Me paro junto al gran silencio del piano y lo digo.
Lo digo delante de un cuadro del mar.
Marco su ritmo en un caracol vacío.
Me escucho a mí mismo decirlo,
luego lo digo sin escuchar,
luego lo escucho sin decirlo.
Y cuando el perro me mira,
me arrodillo en el piso
y lo susurro en cada oreja suya larga y blanca.
Es el de la campana de templo, de una tonelada,
con la polilla que duerme en su superficie,
y cada vez que lo digo, siento la terrible
presión de la polilla
en la superficie de la campana de hierro.
Cuando lo digo en la ventana,
la campana es el mundo
y yo soy la polilla que duerme ahí.
Cuando lo digo en el espejo,
yo soy la campana pesada
y la polilla es la vida con sus alas, delgadas como el papel.
Y más tarde, cuando te lo digo en la oscuridad,
tú eres la campana
y yo soy el badajo de la campana, haciéndote sonar,
y la polilla ha abandonado
su línea y se mueve
como un gozne en el aire, encima de nuestra cama.
Billy Collins, New York, Estados Unidos, 1941
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
imagen: s/d
Japan
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
