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My Favorite Poem

The Lovers. My Favorite Poem. Los Amorosos. Jaime Sabines 1926-1999.

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My Favorite Poem

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  1. The Lovers My Favorite Poem Los Amorosos

  2. Jaime Sabines 1926-1999

  3. The LoversThe lovers say nothing. Love is the finest of the silences, the one that trembles most and is hardest to bear. The lovers are looking for something. The lovers are the ones who abandon, the ones who change, who forget. Their hearts tell them that they will never find. They don't find, they're looking LOS AMOROSOS Los amorosos callan. El amor es el silencio más fino, el más tembloroso, el más insoportable. Los amorosos buscan, los amorosos son los que abandonan, son los que cambian, los que olvidan. Su corazón les dice que nunca han de encontrar, no encuentran, buscan.

  4. The lovers wander around like crazy people because they're alone, alone, surrendering, giving themselves to each moment, crying because they don't save love. They worry about love. The lovers live for the day, it's the best they can do, it's all they know. They're going away all the time, all the time, going somewhere else. They hope, not for anything in particular, they just hope. They know that whatever it is they will not find it. Love is the perpetual deferment, always the next step, the other, the other. The lovers are the insatiable ones, the ones who must always, fortunately, be alone. Los amorosos andan como locos porque están solos, solos, solos, entregándose, dándose a cada rato, llorando porque no salvan al amor. Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos viven al día, no pueden hacer más, no saben. Siempre se están yendo, siempre, hacia alguna parte. Esperan, no esperan nada, pero esperan. Saben que nunca han de encontrar. El amor es la prórroga perpetua, siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro. Los amorosos son los insaciables, los que siempre ¡qué bueno! han de estar solos.

  5. The lovers are the serpent in the story. They have snakes instead of arms. The veins in their necks swell like snakes too, suffocating them. The lovers can't sleep because if they do the worms ear them. They open their eyes in the dark and terror falls into them. They find scorpions under the sheet and their bed floats as though on a lake. The lovers are crazy, only crazy with no God and no devil. Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento. Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos. Las venas del cuello se les hinchan también como serpientes para asfixiarlos. Los amorosos no pueden dormir porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos. En la obscuridad abren los ojos y les cae en ellos el espanto. Encuentran alacranes bajo la sábana y su cama flota como sobre un lago. Los amorosos son locos, sólo locos, sin Dios y sin diablo.

  6. Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas temblorosos, hambrientos, a cazar fantasmas. Se ríen de las gentes que lo saben todo, de las que aman a perpetuidad, verídicamente, de las que creen en el amor como en una lámpara de inagotable aceite. Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua, a tatuar el humo, a no irse. Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor. Nadie ha de resignarse. Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse. Los amorosos se avergüenzan de toda conformación. The lovers come out of their caves trembling, starving, chasing phantoms. They laugh at those who know all about it, who love forever, truly, at those who believe in love as an inexhaustible lamp. The lovers play at picking up water, tattooing smoke, at staying where they are. They play the long sad game of love. None of them will give up. The lovers are ashamed to reach any agreement.

  7. Vacíos, pero vacíos de una a otra costilla, la muerte les fermenta detrás de los ojos, y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente. Les llega a veces un olor a tierra recién nacida, a mujeres que duermen con la mano en el sexo, complacidas, a arroyos de agua tierna y a cocinas. Los amorosos se ponen a cantar entre labios una canción no aprendida. Y se van llorando, llorando la hermosa vida. Empty, but empty from one rib to another, death ferments them behind the eyes, and on they go, they weep toward morning in the trains, and the roosters wake into sorrow. Sometimes a scent of newborn earth reaches them, of women sleeping with a hand on their sex, contented, of gentle streams, and kitchens. The lovers start singing between their lips a song that is not learned. And they go on crying, crying for beautiful life.

  8. JAIME SABINES

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