Under the harvest moon
UNDER the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
POEMA X, Pablo Neruda
ΗΕΜΟS perdido aún este crepúsculo.
Nadie nos vio esta tarde con las manos unidas
mientras la noche azul caía sobre el mundo.
He visto desde mi ventana
la fiesta del poniente en los cerros lejanos.
A veces como una moneda
se encendía un pedazo de sol entre mis manos.
Yo te recordaba con el alma apretada
de esa tristeza que tú me conoces.
Entonces, dónde estabas?
Entre qué genes?
Diciendo qué palabras?
Por qué se me vendrá todo el amor de golpe
cuando me siento triste, y te siento lejana?
Cayó el libro que siempre se toma en el crepúsculo,
y como un perro herido rodó a mis pies mi capa.
Siempre, siempre te alejas en las tardes
hacia donde el crepúsculo corre borrando estatuas.
We’ve lost even this dusk.
No one saw us this afternoon holding hands
as the blue night fell over the world.
I’ve seen from my window
the festival of the west wind in the faraway hills.
Sometimes like a coin,
a piece of the sun flames between my hands.
I remembered you with the constrained soul
of that sadness that you knew in me.
So, where were you?
Among what people?
Speaking what words?
Why does total love come to me so suddenly
when I feel such sadness, and feel you so far away?
The book, always taken up at dusk, fell away,
and like a wounded dog my cape gathered round my feet.
Always, always you distance yourself in the afternoons
toward where the dusk runs, turning even statues to dark.
Translation: Terence Clarke
Ιφιγένεια Σιαφάκα - Ifigeneia Siafaka
Ενύπνια Ψιχίων 