by Stanley Kunitz
Years ago I lost
both my parents' addresses.
Father and mother lie
in their neglected cribs,
obscure as moles,
unvisited.
I do not need to summon them.
When I put out the light
I hear them stir, dissatisfied,
in their separate places,
in death as in life
remote from each other,
having no conversation
except in the common ground
of their son's mind.
They slip through narrow crevices
and, suddenly blown tall,
glide into my cave of phantoms,
unwelcome guests, but not
unloved, dark emissaries
of the two-faced god.
2 comments:
De cada muerte una vida, confía en la sabiduría.
Me gusto mucho el titulo del poema, "Los inquietos". Y lo de los padres en la cuna, como un regreso a la semilla, el hijo cuidando a sus padres como estos hicieron con el cuando era nino...
Saludos, Zoe.
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