AGUA
Era un pueblo langostero de Maine—
cada mañana botes llenos de manos
partían hacia las canteras de granito
en las islas,
y dejaban atrás docenas de tristes
casas blancas de madera adheridas
como conchas de ostra
a una colina de roca,
y debajo de nosotros, el mar lamía
los pequeños laberintos
de palos de cerilla de una esclusa,
donde se atrapaban los peces para cebo.
¿Recuerdas? nos sentábamos en una laja de roca.
Desde esta distancia en el tiempo,
parece del color
de los lirios iris, pudriéndose y volviéndose más púrpura,
pero no era más que la habitual roca gris
que se volvía del habitual color verde
cuando el mar la empapaba.
El mar empapaba la roca
a nuestros pies todo el día
y continuaba arrancándole
trozo tras trozo.
Una noche tú soñaste
que eras una sirena aferrada a un pilón de un muelle,
y que intentabas arrancar
los percebes con las manos,
Deseábamos que nuestras dos almas
pudieran retornar como gaviotas
A la roca. Al final,
el agua resultó demasiado fría para nosotros.
Water
It was a Maine lobster town—
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,
but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.
One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,
but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.
One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.
ROBERT LOWELL LEE "WATER"
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