CARTAS AL Dr. Y.
Hoy me hacen feliz las sábanas de la vida.
Lavé las sábanas de la cama.
Tendí las sábanas y las contemplé
dar manotazos y alzarse como gaviotas.
Cuando estuvieron secas las descolgué
y enterré mi cabeza en ellas.
Todo el oxígeno del mundo estaba en ellas.
Todos los pies de los bebés del mundo estaban en ellas.
Todas las ingles de los ángeles del mundo estaban en ellas.
Todos los besos mañaneros de Filadelfia estaban en ellas.
Todos los juegos a la pata coja en las aceras estaban en ellas.
Todos los ponis de trapo estaban en ellas.
Así que esto es la felicidad,
ese jornalero.
Anne Sexton ( Traducción Juan Ronco)
LETTERS TO Dr. Y.
I am happy today with sheets of life.
I washed out the bedsheets.
I hung out the bedsheets and watched them
slap and lift like gulls.
When they were dry I unfastened them
and buried my head in them.
All the oxygen of the world was in them.
All the feet of the babies of the world were in them.
All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them.
All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
All the hopscotch games on the sidewalks were in them.
All the ponies made of cloth were in them.
So this is happiness,
that journeyman.
I washed out the bedsheets.
I hung out the bedsheets and watched them
slap and lift like gulls.
When they were dry I unfastened them
and buried my head in them.
All the oxygen of the world was in them.
All the feet of the babies of the world were in them.
All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them.
All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
All the hopscotch games on the sidewalks were in them.
All the ponies made of cloth were in them.
So this is happiness,
that journeyman.
Maravillosa poesía. Cuántas veces despreciamos la felicidad que nos proporciona la sencillez. Gracias.
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