Sunday, October 5, 2008

Este poeta miente

Los poetas mienten. O quizás exageran. Como los viejos que se pasan todo el tiempo haciendo historias de su juventud y nadie les cree. En el futuro, ¿quién creerá estos versos que he escrito para describir tu belleza? Mi verso es una tumba que esconde tu vida, sólo te muestra incompleta. Tu eres más bella. Mi pobre poesía no te hace justicia. Pero si ven nuestras hijas y leen mi poesía, podrás entonces vivir doblemente. En ellas y en mis versos.

Soneto 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say ‘This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers yellow’d with their age
Be scorn’d like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Gracias

Neysa G

Ernesto G. said...

Que lo disfrutes. :)