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world without peculiarity

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The day is great and strong—

But his father was strong, that lies now

In the poverty of dirt.

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Nothing could be more hushed than the way

The moon moves toward the night.

But what his mother was returns and cries on his breast.

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The red ripeness of round leaves is thick

With the spices of red summer.

But she that he loved turns cold at his light touch.

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What good is it that the earth is justified,

That it is complete, that it is an end,

That in itself it is enough?

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It is the earth itself that is humanity…

He is the inhuman son and she,

She is the fateful mother, whom he does not know.

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She is the day, the walk of the moon

Among the breathless spices and, sometimes,

He, too, is human and difference disappears

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And the poverty of dirt, the thing upon his breast,

The hating woman, the meaningless place,

Become a single being, sure and true.

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mundo sin peculiaridad

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Grande y fuerte es el día—

pero su padre era fuerte, aquél que yace ahora

en la pobreza del polvo.

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Nada puede ser más discreto que la manera

en que la luna avanza hacia la noche.

Pero lo que fue su madre regresa y llora sobre su pecho.

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La roja madurez de redondas hojas está cargada

de las especias del rojo verano.

Pero ella a quien él amó se enfría al menor de sus roces.

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¿De qué sirve que la tierra esté justificada,

que esté completa, que sea un fin,

que en sí misma sea suficiente?

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Es la tierra misma que es humanidad…

Él es el hijo inhumano y ella,

ella es la fatídica madre, a quien él no conoce.

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Ella es el día, el paso de la luna

entre las jadeantes especias y, a veces,

él también es humano y la diferencia se esfuma.

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Y la pobreza del polvo, esa cosa sobre su pecho,

esa detestable mujer, ese lugar sin sentido,

se vuelven un solo ser, firme y verdadero.

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N.B.: Wallace Stevens first collected this poem in his 1950 volume Auroras of Autumn,

the last separate volume of lyrics he was to publish

(“The Rock” and its associated poems were brought out as a part of Stevens’ 1954 Collected Poems)

Auroras won the National Book Award in March 1951

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Versión de Gerardo Cárdenas

[mexicanculturalcentre]

MCC

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