T (no first name) Wignesan


A Partisan Heart, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Corazon partidario


My heart, you know well
is not with him who triumphs or with one who entertains such
aspirations as with the sworn-in trader,
who lies in wait for a good opportunity, then crouches and pounces
on the usefulness of such utility which is his beloved activity:
looks to profit from the embrace,
exacts rent from butterflies and lays out the interest in the open,
collects the receipt for dawning miracles
of the changing nuances of colour
of an invisible and early rose,
sweet and in a hurry
as if it were a man or a flame
or a humane form of happiness: Yes!

My heart is not with the man who knows
the truth,
all that is needed
to forget the rest
that there is,
content with the wind, empowered by conceit,
the chancellor of snow, king by chance,
but never himself knows.

My heart is with him who one day,
though deprived of flitting fame, abandoned by the graces that kept
him going until then,
during the time it takes for everything hostile to render agreeable
reality itself: life being easy, the light adorable,
yet to know how to say: « It doesn’t matter! »

My heart is with him who as a consequence,
the glass which a hand of snow extends in the shade,
drinks up the last drop in all clarity
and without feeling bitter –
the scum of the world.

And afterwards, in all seriousness,
way out there, in the heavens,
sees with renewed eyes –
the sky that is pure.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

Submitted: Thursday, October 31, 2013
Edited: Thursday, October 31, 2013


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