Cronos

Monday dawns.
Without any surprise,
I witness the wonder of recovering my soul  
while the body,
                                                in dissidence,
confronts the daily looting.

I endure a ritual
of days
which rush forward,
                                                insolent.
They obey seven tribes
and a single watchword:
                        what is added is taken away.

The margin
is thinner each time,
                        hardly a blink.                        

On my rope I reel
followed by the rodent which undermines the track.

The rope is unique.
The road, is of a single wind. 
There is no applause at the end of the run.

Copyright 2004 Elena Cohen Imach.  Translated by Ron Hudson.

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Cronos

Amanece lunes.                                              
Sin asombro
asisto al prodigio de recobrar mi alma
mientras el cuerpo,                             
      en disidencia,
enfrenta el saqueo cotidiano.

Soporto un ritual
de días
que se abalanzan,
      insolentes.
A siete tribus responden
y a una sola consigna:
lo que se suma se resta.

El margen
es cada vez más delgado,
un parpadeo apenas.

Sobre mi cuerda tambaleo
seguida por el roedor que socava la huella.

La cuerda es única.
El camino,  de un solo viento.
No hay aplausos al final del recorrido.

Copyright 2004 Elena Cohen Imach.