En lugar que jamás crucé, feliz allá toda ocasión, tus ojos callan: tu más flaco ademán me cierra en cosas, cosas tan inmediatas que no alcanzo
tu más leve mirar me descerrara aunque soy como dedos en un puño, hoja por hoja logras siempre abrirme como abre diestro abril primera rosa
o si cerrarme acaso es tu deseo mi vida y yo muy súbitos se sellan, como la flor figura en su sentido la nieve que tan paso a todo baja;
nada se capta igual en este mundo al brío de tu flaqueza, cuya trama me mueve con color de sus países, librando muerte y siempre en cada aliento
(yo no sé qué hay en ti que cierra y abre mas algo en mí comprende que la voz de tu mirar más cala que las rosas) tan parvas manos ni la lluvia tiende
*
Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
E. E. Cummings
di-versión©ochoislas
