(no subject)
For Stephen, thinking in Catalan
A film moment
Untitled fragment from Llibre segon d'Estances
La vida passa, i l'ull no es cansa d'abocar
imatges clares dintre del cor.
...Tot en mi torna somni: nuvolet d'ombra i d'or
que flota i fina lluny de la mà.
Qui endinsa en el seu cor com un minaire avar,
qui de recança ulls clucs es peix,
tenen més que no jo, que estrany a mi mateix
i alt sobre els altres, guaito l'ona incessant com creix
i minva cap al mar.
¿Quin moviment humà pot encara desfer
l'encant, llançar-me sang i sentits
a la presa, que és nostra, afanyada, entre els dits,
o al cant, que d'home a home va i ve?
¿O ha d'ésser mon destí el de l'ocell reial
que un tret, per folga, tomba del cel,
i l'aigua indiferent l'endú, vençut rebel,
cobrint-se amb l'ala inútil els ulls buidats d'anhel,
sense un plany pel seu mal?
__________________________
Life passes, and the eye never tires of taking
clear images into the heart.
...All in me becomes a dream: a little cloud of shadow and gold
that floats and dies out far from my hand.
He who dives into his heart like a greedy miner,
or who from sorrow shuts himself up in there like a fish,
has more than I who, estranged from myself,
high above the others, watches the ceaseless wave as it grows
and diminishes in the sea.
What human motion has yet to undo
this spell, to throw me with blood and feeling
to the catch, our own, that we earned, between our fingers,
or to the song, that from man to man comes and goes?
Or does my destiny have to be that of the regal bird
that in one shot, like a joke, falls from the sky,
carried away by the indifferent water, a defeated rebel,
one useless wing covering his eyes emptied of desire,
without a single complaint for his suffering?
--Carlos Riba
A film moment
Untitled fragment from Llibre segon d'Estances
La vida passa, i l'ull no es cansa d'abocar
imatges clares dintre del cor.
...Tot en mi torna somni: nuvolet d'ombra i d'or
que flota i fina lluny de la mà.
Qui endinsa en el seu cor com un minaire avar,
qui de recança ulls clucs es peix,
tenen més que no jo, que estrany a mi mateix
i alt sobre els altres, guaito l'ona incessant com creix
i minva cap al mar.
¿Quin moviment humà pot encara desfer
l'encant, llançar-me sang i sentits
a la presa, que és nostra, afanyada, entre els dits,
o al cant, que d'home a home va i ve?
¿O ha d'ésser mon destí el de l'ocell reial
que un tret, per folga, tomba del cel,
i l'aigua indiferent l'endú, vençut rebel,
cobrint-se amb l'ala inútil els ulls buidats d'anhel,
sense un plany pel seu mal?
__________________________
Life passes, and the eye never tires of taking
clear images into the heart.
...All in me becomes a dream: a little cloud of shadow and gold
that floats and dies out far from my hand.
He who dives into his heart like a greedy miner,
or who from sorrow shuts himself up in there like a fish,
has more than I who, estranged from myself,
high above the others, watches the ceaseless wave as it grows
and diminishes in the sea.
What human motion has yet to undo
this spell, to throw me with blood and feeling
to the catch, our own, that we earned, between our fingers,
or to the song, that from man to man comes and goes?
Or does my destiny have to be that of the regal bird
that in one shot, like a joke, falls from the sky,
carried away by the indifferent water, a defeated rebel,
one useless wing covering his eyes emptied of desire,
without a single complaint for his suffering?
--Carlos Riba