Artificiosa evasión de la muerte, si valiera;
pero, entretanto, es ingeniosa
Pierdes el tiempo, Muerte, en mi herida,
pues quien no vive no padece muerte;
si has de acabar mi vida, has de volverte
a aquellos ojos donde está mi vida.
Al sagrado en que habita retraída,
aun siendo sin piedad, no has de atreverte;
que serás vida, si llegase a verte,
y quedarás de ti desconocida.
Yo soy ceniza que sobró a la llama;
nada dejó por consumir el fuego
que en amoroso incendio se derrama.
Vuélvete al miserable, cuyo ruego,
por descansar en su dolor, te llama:
que lo que yo no tengo, no lo niego.
Artful evasion of death, if it worked;
but in the meantime, it is clever
Death, you're wasting time upon my wound,
for he who does not live will never die;
if you're to end my life, you must return
to those eyes where my very life resides.
To that pure ground where it, alone, now dwells,
though you've no mercy, you won't dare to go;
for there, if I saw you, you would be life,
and you yourself would then not even know.
I am the ash left over from the flame;
nothing was left to burn by the great fire
that in a loving blaze intensifies.
Go find someone who's wretched, whose loud plea,
to bring relief to his pain calls to you:
for what I do not have, I'll not deny.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
