The great Spanish poet Antonio Machado : The Voyager He is among us in the gloom of the family den.The brother we loved. One day of sun in childhood dream we saw him leave for a far land. His temples have gone silver, gray hair over a pinched forehead. The icy worry of his gaze reveals a soul almost in limbo. In the old melancholy park leaves spin out of autumn treetops. Behind the steaming windowpanes afternoon is painted in the deep mirror. Our brother’s face is softly lighted. Are these gold disillusions in the sinking afternoon? A hunger for new life in new years? Is he longing for his lost youth? Far off the dead miserable wolf. Is he terrified a white manhood never lived will haunt his door. Is he grinning at the sun of gold from a country of unfound dream, or seeing his ship cracking a thunder sea, a white sail swollen with wind and light. He has seen the autumn’s yellow leaves rolling on the ground, aromatic branches of the eucalyptus, rosebushes again showing their white bloom. And his wistful and suspicious grief freezes a threatening tear. The splash of virile hypocrisy is printed on his wan countenance. The grave portrait on the wall is still flashing light. We are rambling. In the gloom of the den pounds the clock’s ticktock.None of us talks.
Posted on: Mon, 15 Sep 2014 00:52:37 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015