Yet Another Evening

In this evening that is an echo of other evenings,
when something breaks without remedy
                                               or has broken;
in this evening which is the same and different
I speak the weariness of futile strain
the squandering of love that goes unnoticed.
I speak the pain and I speak the folly
of so many ignored offerings,
                                               of the obscure displeasure,
                                                           of the faded illusion.

In this, an evening of the weary animal,
of curtain-falls after the show,
without suspense nor consolation,
I mend my parts,
I count my crumbs,
I cover my ears

Still she breathes, crouching,
my old well-known one,
the one who threw her wings overboard.

Copyright 2004 by Elena Cohen Imach.  Translated by Ron Hudson.

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La Insensata

En esta tarde que es eco de otras tardes
y algo se quiebra sin remedio
                                               o se ha quebrado;
en esta tarde que es igual y diferente
digo el hastío del esfuerzo vano,
del derroche de amor inadvertido.
Digo el dolor y digo el desatino
de tanta ofrenda ignorada,
                        del oscuro  sinsabor,
                                               de la ilusión marchita.
En esta tarde de animal cansado,
de telones caídos después de la función,
sin suspenso ni consuelo,
zurzo mis pedazos,
                            cuento las migajas,
                                                           me tapo los oídos.

Aún respira, agazapada,
mi vieja conocida,
la insensata,
la que arrojó sus alas por la borda.

Copyright 2004 by Elena Cohen Imach.