Saturday, December 29, 2007

Al fin.

For my faithful would-be readers, a poem that you cannot read. Irony abounds.

Las rosas marchitan.
Mi abuela los vigila;
Sabe marchitar.

<<La muerte de las rosas,>>
Está dejando.

Mi arrugita,
Reducida por silla
De las ruedas

Y lagrimas
Y edad
Y muerte

Al fin.


The roses wither./ My grandmother watches over them;/ She knows how to wither.

"I hate to see/ the roses' death,"/ She is saying.

My little wrinkle,/Reduced to [or by] the chair/ of wheels

And tears/ And age/ And death

To the end [or "finally"; literally, "at the end"].

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