A Poem from Chile
Echo of Another Sonata
In your opinion one love erases another
and so it is, dear, yet in love not everything
belongs to the dart and quiver—
false starts—or is part of the wound that bewilders
all pleasure, all grief
twin of death, metaphor for birth
The victims of Eros survive the crime
that, joyfully, they’re passive agents of
its authors in a mysterious moment and they don’t forget
at least I don’t: my memory of you
remains, independent of love
as in that painting by Magritte where the dawn sky
still hasn’t dissolved night in the street
nor its precious moon: a light curdled
in the streetlight that darkly illuminates that road
It’s true, the oxymoron
is no more than a figure of speech
and can be guilty of premeditation
Not so myself, at least I hope not, if I tell you:
one love doesn’t erase another
Memory, also, in its way loves
and, as someone said, “There is no forgetting.”
Translation from the Spanish