PHILIP LARKIN (England, 1922-1985)
The trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
The trees
The trees are coming into leafLike something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
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Los árboles
Los árboles ya comienzan a brotar
como algo casi a punto de ser dicho;
los nuevos tallos descansan y se
propagan,
su verdor es una especie de tristeza.
¿Se trata de que ellos nacen
nuevamente
y nosotros nos hacemos viejos? No, también mueren,
Su truco anual de lucir nuevos.
Se inscribe en sus fibras en anillos.
Sin embargo, los incansables castillos
desgranan
su gruesa madurez cada primavera.
Ha muerto el último año, parecen
decir,
comencemos otra vez, otra vez, otra
vez.
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