Somos nuestros recuerdos; y sin ellos, poco más que amebas flotando en una charca sucia, buscando nuestra próxima comida, quizá la última…
…never grow old
Butterfly lazily drinking the sun,
Lavishly sprinkled and painted with gold.
Here in the land of the mist and the lake,
Me and my true love will never grow old.
Seen dimly before dawn
Where are you now, you who ran over the moonlit furrow and ruled it?
The thick light throbbing, and the unheard trumpets calling
To what strange battle?
Low muttered words, and things seen dimly before dawn
Informed you then, before the ice-glare of day
Came with its crude clarity
Edward Hopper, Automat, 1927, Des Moines Art Center, Des Moines, Iowa
Chehalis and Other Voices
There was a Door to which I found no Key
There was a Veil past which I could not see
Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee
There seemed — and then no more of Thee and Me.
(Omar Jayam, Rubaiyat. Trad. Edward FitzGerald, 1859)
Le temps des cerises
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises.
C'est de ce temps-là que je garde au cœur
une plaie ouverte.
Et Dame Fortune, en m'étant offerte
ne pourra jamais fermer ma douleur…
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises
et le souvenir que je garde au cœur.
(Jean-Baptiste Clément, Le temps des cerises, 1866)
Those were the days
those were the days
yes, they were
those were the days
those were their ways
miracles everywhere, where are they now?
they're gone
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