Noche . Night

Four A.M.
By Wislawa Szymborska

The hour between night and day.
The hour between toss and turn.
The hour of thirty-year-olds.

The hour swept clean for roosters’ crowing.
The hour when the earth takes back it warm embrace.
The hour of cool drafts from extinguished stars.
The hour of do-we-vanish-too-without-a-trace.

Empty hour.
Hollow. Vane.
Rock bottom of all the other hours.

No one feels fine at four a.m.
If ants feel fine at four a.m.,
we’re happy for the ants. And let five a.m. come
if we’ve got to go on living.

Caracas at night, By Little Skinny Elbows

 

Este es un llamado de la noche. Envía imágenes, textos, dibujos antes del 2 de abril de 2012.
This is a call from the night, send your images, texts, drawings by April 2, 2012.

correosdelguaire@gmail.com  ; clementinalimalimon@gmail.com

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Under one small star, By Wislawa Szymborska

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.

My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.

Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.

May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.

My apologies to time for the world I overlook each second.

My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest was the first.

Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.

Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.

I apologize for my record of minuets for those who cry from the depths.

I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at 5 a.m.

Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.

Pardon me, deserts that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.

And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,

your gaze always fixed on the same point is space,

forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.

My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.

My apologies to great questions for small answers.

Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.

Dignity, please be magnanimous.

Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.

Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.

My apologies top everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.

My apologies for everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.

I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,

since I myself stand in my own way.

Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,

then labor heavily so that they may seem light.