[SPA - ENG] Te leo un poema de Alejandra Pizarnik: Árbol de Diana

Diana's Tree

1

I have leapt from me to the dawn. I have left my body by the light and I have sung the sadness of what is born.

2

These are the versions he proposes to us: a hole, a trembling wall...

3

Only thirst, silence, no encounter.
Beware of me my love, beware of the silent one in the desert, of the traveler with the empty glass and the shadow of her shadow.

4

Now then:
Who will cease to sink his hand in search of tribute for the little forgotten one. The cold will pay. The wind will pay. The rain will pay. The thunder will pay.

to Aurora and Julio Cortázar

5

For a minute of a single brief life of open eyes, for a minute of seeing in the brain small flowers dancing like words in the mouth of a mute.

6

She undresses in the paradise of her memory, she does not know the fierce destiny of her visions, she is afraid of not knowing how to name what does not exist.

7

She jumps with her shirt on fire from star to star, from shadow to shadow. She who loves the wind dies a distant death.

8

Illuminated memory, gallery where the shadow of what I hope for wanders. It is not true that it will come. It is not true that it will not come.

9

These bones shining in the night, these words like precious stones in the living throat of a petrified bird, this much loved green, this warm lilac, this heart only mysterious.

10

A faint wind full of bent faces I cut out in the shape of objects to love.

11

Now in this innocent hour I and the one I was sit on the threshold of my gaze.

12

No more the sweet metamorphoses of a silken girl, sleepwalking now on the foggy ledge. Her awakening of hand breathing of flower opening to the wind.

13

To explain with words of this world that departed from me a ship carrying me away.

14

The poem I don't say, the one I don't deserve. Fear of being two on the way to the mirror: someone in me asleep eats me and drinks me.

15

I miss not getting used to the hour in which I was born. I miss no longer exercising the office of a newcomer.

16

You have built your house, you have feathered your birds, you have beaten the wind with your own bones. You have finished alone
what no one began.

17

Days when a distant word takes hold of me. I go through those days sleepwalking and transparent. The beautiful automaton sings to herself, enchants herself, tells herself cases and things: nest of rigid threads where I dance and weep at my many funerals. (She is your mirror set on fire, your waiting in cold bonfires, your mystical element, your fornication of names growing alone in the pale night).

18

Like a poem aware of the silence of things, you speak so as not to see me.

19

When you see the eyes I have in mine tattooed.

20

He says he doesn't know of the fear of the death of love, he says he's afraid of the death of love, he says love is death is fear, he says death is fear is love, he says he doesn't know.

to Laure Bataillon

21

I was born so much and doubly suffered in the memory of here and there.

22

In the night a mirror for the little dead girl, a mirror of ashes.

23

A glance from the gutter can be a vision of the world.
Rebellion consists in looking at a rose until one's eyes are pulverized.

24

(drawing by Wols)

These threads imprison the shadows and force them to account for the silence, these threads link the look to the sobbing.

25

(Goya exhibition)

A hole in the night suddenly invaded by an angel.

26

(a drawing by Klee)

When the palace of the night lights up its beauty, we will press the mirrors until our faces sing like idols.

27

A blow of dawn on the flowers leaves me drunk with nothingness and lilac light, drunk with immobility and certainty.

28

You move away from the names that spin the silence of things.

29

Here we live with a hand on our throat. That nothing is possible, those who invented rains and wove words with the torment of absence already knew. That is why in their prayers there was a sound of hands in love with the fog.

to André Pieyre de Mandiargues

30

In the fabulous winter, the wail of wings in the rain in the memory of water, fingers of fog.

31

It is a closing of the eyes and swearing not to open them. As long as outside they feed on clocks and flowers born of cunning. But with eyes closed and suffering too great in truth we press the mirrors until the forgotten words sound magically.

32

Pest zone where the sleeping slowly eats her midnight heart.

33

Sometime, sometime maybe, I'll leave without staying, I'll leave as one who leaves.

to Ester Singer

34

The little traveler died explaining her death. Wise nostalgic animals visited her warm body.

35

Life, my life, let yourself fall, let yourself ache, my life, let yourself be laced with fire, with naive silence, with green stones in the house of the night, let yourself fall and ache, my life.

36

In the cage of time the sleeping one looks at her lonely eyes.
The wind brings her the faint answer of the leaves.

to Alain Glass

37

Beyond any forbidden zone there is a mirror for our sad transparency.

38

This repentant song, guard behind my poems: this song denies me, gags me.

Source: Poem book Diana's Tree by Alejandra Pizarnik in PDF format.