Past noon. Past the cinema with the tall sorrowful walls on the point of coming down, I enter the orchard. Show over, all of them have gone: day laborers, dogs and doors. My father is standing in front of a fig tree. My mother has died. The children, grown old. He's alone, small threads of air weave in and out of his tattered clothes. For fear of getting too close and startling him with my living presence, I want to go straight by, the strange one now with white hair whom he asks, "Who's that there?" "Father, it's me, your son." "Does your mother know you're back. Will you stay and eat?" "Father, for years now your wife has lain at rest by your side in the town graveyard." Then, as if he has divined everything, he calls me by my childhood name and gives me a fig. So we met up, the living and the dead. Then, each went on his way.
El Poema / The Poem
A Octavio Paz
El poema gira sobre la cabeza de un hombre en círculos ya próximos ya alejados El hombre al descubrirlo trata de poseerlo pero el poema desaparece Con lo que el hombre puede asir hace el poema Lo que se le escapa pertenece a los hombres futuros *
For Octavio Paz
The poem spins over the head of a man in circles close now now far The man discovers it tries to possess it but the poem disappears The man makes his poem from whatever he can grasp That which escapes will belong to future men