To See Him Again Poem by Gabriela Mistral
To See Him Again
Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?
Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?
Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!
To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his bloody neck!
This poem could be about her friend, Romelio Ureta, who killed himself in 1909, but is more likely about her 17-year-old nephew, Juan Miguel Godoy, who killed himself on 14 August 1943. Does anyone know where I can find a copy of this poem in the original Spanish?
To be with him... every springtime and winter, united in one anguished knot around his neck! /// beautiful poem penned
A pale path! ! ! To be with him; To see him once again. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
At every springtime and winter we should feel the seasonal movement. This poem is very interesting and wonderfully this is written. Thank you very much for sharing this lovely work...10
Deep feelings nicely expressed with clarity of thought and mind. Very heartfelt with strong emotions.
To see him again - it would not matter where - in heaven's deadwater or inside the boiling vortex, under serene moons or in bloodless fright! Beautifully penned!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/26/2023 7:25:24 AM # 1.0.0.1113
ORIGINAL SPANISH TEXT: Volverlo a Ver ¿Y nunca, nunca más, ni en noches llenas de temblor de astros, ni en las alboradas vírgenes, ni en las tardes inmoladas? ¿Al margen de ningún sendero pálido, que ciñe el campo, al margen de ninguna fontana trémula, blanca de luna? ¿Bajo las trenzaduras de la selva, donde llamándolo me ha anochecido, ni en la gruta que vuelve mi alarido? ¡Oh, no! ¡Volverlo a ver, no importa dónde, en remansos de cielo o en vórtice hervidor, bajo unas lunas plácidas o en un cárdeno horror! ¡Y ser con él todas las primaveras y los inviernos, en un angustiado nudo, en torno a su cuello ensangrentado!