No es lo mismo decir ventana
que "window." - Camilo José Cela
Outside the hummingbird blinks
among blossoming jasmines
to leap a stucco wall
sparkling (from broken glass)
in the always vertical sun
below Cancer. Cerrada.
North, ice is a silver ornament
intricate as quartz.
In fair weather Windex gleam and slant rays
for panicked wrens
to break their necks on. Closed.
Ventana abierta.
The postman's two-note whistle
the cowbells for basura
dry briskness of the morning brooms
church bells, taco smells.
Open windows.
What do you expect? Neighbors
at it again, incessant car alarms
horns along the avenue
someone's Sunday bacon frying.
Ventana, windspace, ventus, opening
for the wind to flow.
Window, windeye, vind-auga
lens to watch it by.
Ventana: I am here.
Window: I am watching.
What do we translate here?
What do we mean?
Here is a poem of a third thing.
Language trapped in between.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He captures the moment, captures the reality of the absolute difference between the two objects, artfully, with beauty and and the grace of a colibri.