For one who loves the sunken world, under the folds of its skirts a wild abandon beckons. But the journey, the true journey, is not this one; neither is it the one that the traveler, master of the crows, undertakes for mastery of his own life never returns to him : nor is it the journey of the sailor who misses both dry land and woman; nor is it mine.
The true journey is the one with no predetermined port or destination, with no schedule: a trip across the sea and for the sea, with no greater purpose than the naked horizon and the eternally budding waves. Los asnos la repudiaron. Que aquella tela le llega hasta los huesos. Cuando debe atravesar un torrente, pasa al trote y se mira las patas cuando llega al otro lado.
Ella comprende el valor de su dibujo desde que la han sacado del establo, a ella sola, y la han llevado al gran parque. Aquella era una cebra, otra cebra. It took a long while for her to get used to this. The donkeys disdained her. She explained that she was only a donkey in her Sunday best. That pattern reached clear through to her bones. Returning, with aching sides, she looked at herself in a pond. She lay down in the water, and her long stripes turned into beautiful dark pleats. Now what concerns her is how not to lose this color.
She avoids the rain, thinking what a loss it would be to have no color at all, like the donkey. When she has to cross a running stream, she goes at a trot and checks her legs when she reaches the other side. Since they have taken her from the stable, her alone, and moved her to a great park, she understands how valuable her pattern is.
One day she saw something extraordinary. There was a great white sky stretching above the park. Some things passed quickly, with the wind, making striped bands and more striped bands, and gray bands that turned dark. Twilight had fallen, and the sky turned yellow.
Something there turned into a zebra, then another. I ask myself. The zebra —some smart-ass responds— is only a donkey whose master has whipped it all night. Se sacude en vano para mezclar las franjas ardientes y hacer la llama. Mira a la faisana, anodina. Era la juventud del mundo.
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Dio vueltas y vueltas y vueltas hasta enfriarse. What a bore! Look at the hen pheasant: how dull she is. What a morganatic consort you have! But the salamander never does come, and the pheasant grows old beside the lackluster hen pheasant. What he has seen that is his equal is the a ernoon, dropping wounded behind the trees at the edge of the park, breaking a red egg at the horizon. He hated it for yielding its downy feathers unprotestingly each day, till he thought the sunset might be his mother.
Since then he loves it, and he watches as it drops through the chestnut trees. Without me around, the hens would look at you like a necromancer. Thanks to me they can carry on with you and tolerate having you around. There was once a time when the world was more color than form and when looking at it was more joyous.
Color broke into lights everywhere, like the sea.
That was the infancy of the world. It turned and turned and turned, until it cooled. La harina resbaladiza como la plata, de la patata pobre. La clara harina. Pero no camina, ni baila, ni canta. Si quiere tener nombre, hay que hacerle nombre con tres B o tres M blandas. Flour is clear, smooth, and weighty. She is completely womanly, as female as rubber or chalk; she recognizes a lullaby if you hum it to her; she understands all womanly things. Le alone with the world, she would feed the planet with her round breasts.
She can also turn herself into a mountain of milk, a gentle mountain down which all the children tumble and tumble. If she walked, no one would hear her cottony feet as they sank, weightily, into the earth; if she were to dance, her heavy arms would fall; if she wanted to sing, the song would lodge in her thick throat. La sal es absoluta y pura como la muerte. The salt is absolute and pure as death. The salt nailed through the hearts of good people, even the heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, keeps them from dissolving in piety.
Los poetas no han sabido ni el color de la noche ni el del higo de Palestina. I bloom within myself, inwardly, enjoying a look at myself at least once a week. Then the satin opens, generously, in a great crease of Congolese laughter. We are both an ur-ancient blue, a passionate blue that grows richly denser through its passion. The rose at rest also knows this feeling. Let my praise be sung!
Una fruta guerrera ella toda cubierta de cicatrices como el pecho de la amazona. She does not know the fragility of a dangling golden pear; she settled into the ground for six weeks, feeling the earth gentle and strong. Not even battle helmets carry plumage as powerful as hers. A warrior fruit scarred like the chest of an Amazon.
Han echado en su sitio una arena pulida y ella la palpa y palpa con el pecho. La arena cruje dulcemente y resbala como un agua lenta. Ella camina desde la arenilla hacia un cuadro de hierba menuda que le es familiar como la arena, y estas dos criaturas, arena y hierba rasada, se lo ocurren dos dioses dulces.
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Bebe sin rumor en el charco. Se recoge entonces. La mano cuerda aparta entonces a la loca.
Brilla mucho la arena a cierta hora y el agua resplandece. La parada conoce el mundo, muy bien que se lo sabe. Ahora hay sobre la mesa una concha espaciosa, urna de hierro viejo, llena de silencio. Throughout her place they have spread a polished sand; she touches it and touches it with her breast. The sand creaks sweetly and slides like slow water.
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