El planeta sobre la mesa

por Wallace Stevens

Ariel estaba contento de haber escrito sus poemas

eran de una época que anhelaba

o de algo que vio y que le gustó.

Las demás inventos del sol

eran desperdicio y revoltijo

y el arbusto maduro flaqueaba.

Él y el sol eran uno

y sus poemas, o sea, sus inventos

no fueron nada menos que los del sol.

No era importante que sobrevivieran.

Lo que importaba era que ellos tuvieran

algún destino o característica

algún valor, ojalá atisbado

en la pobreza de sus palabras,

las del planeta del que fueron parte.

*    *    *

The Planet On The Table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.

They were of a remembered time

Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun

Were waste and welter

And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one

And his poems, although makings of his self,

Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.

What mattered was that they should bear

Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,

In the poverty of their words,

Of the planet of which they were part.