As if they suddenly abolished
the summer fennel, the corner
that waves
so wildly covet;
as if they suddenly
prohibited the Little Dipper, the oranges,
her naked body at dusk among the nasturtiums;
as if without warning
the dead pigeons sullied all the grey of dawn;
as if the bells
refused to ring, as if the boat
would never want to leave the night cove again;
as if the Tower of Pisa
were finally to collapse one flute-filled twilight;
as if tears
could no longer blur your gaze,
as if, once and for all,
you died in the corner of memory.
Josep M. Llompart [Josep Maria Llompart de la Peña] (1925 – 1993) Spain (Majorca)
Translated by Bruce Levitan (using a mixture of online translators)
Source: Generalitat de Catalunya (from Complete Poetry, 2018)
the summer fennel, the corner
that waves
so wildly covet;
as if they suddenly
prohibited the Little Dipper, the oranges,
her naked body at dusk among the nasturtiums;
as if without warning
the dead pigeons sullied all the grey of dawn;
as if the bells
refused to ring, as if the boat
would never want to leave the night cove again;
as if the Tower of Pisa
were finally to collapse one flute-filled twilight;
as if tears
could no longer blur your gaze,
as if, once and for all,
you died in the corner of memory.
Josep M. Llompart [Josep Maria Llompart de la Peña] (1925 – 1993) Spain (Majorca)
Translated by Bruce Levitan (using a mixture of online translators)
Source: Generalitat de Catalunya (from Complete Poetry, 2018)
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