Cerco Del Presente

JORGE GUILLÉN
Cantan grillos. Cantan, quieren
Durar sonando.
La noche quiere más cielo
De su verano.
En un constante fluir
Se encauza y murmura, manso,
Un rumbo de oscuridad
Que se dirige hacia el canto.
Croan, perdidas, las ranas.
Noche de charcos.
¿Tinieblas difusas? Unen
Los grillos. ¡Tantos!
Mana tiempo del presente,
Susurro sin intervalo.
Lo que fué, lo que será
Laten, ahora inmediatos.
Actualidad infmita
Dura creando.
Grillos sonantes. La noche
Tornea campo.

THE RIM OF THE PRESENT

Crickets are singing, singing, wishing
the song to go on forever.
The night too is asking for more sky
from its summer.
The course of the darkness
murmurs, gently moving
in a continuous flowing
toward the singing.
Lost frogs are croaking, croaking.
Puddles in the night.
Such a spread of dark? The crickets
— so many — unify it.
This moment is flowing,
a continuous whisper.
In it, what was, what will be
beat, both together.
The infinity of the moment
lasts in its becoming.
The crickets singing, singing. The night
circling the fields, turning.

Translated by Alastair Reid.