Irene
No, no he volgut pintar
el teu cabell llarg
ni les teves mans.
Ni el teu cos, que he envoltat
d'ones que he robat
al mar abrivat.
No, no he volgut pintar
aquest despertat
serè, deslliurat.
Ni el primer cant d'ocell
que ens acosta el vent
abans de l'adéu.
I ara que el temps se m'emporta
i em tanques la porta
per on vaig entrar,
no, no vull recordar
ni la teva imatge
ni les teves mans,
No, no em puc aturar
i mirar la vida
des del finestral.
No, no vull trepitjar
fulles que em recorden
el teu caminar.
No, ja no vull tornar
al camí que em porta
a la teva llar.
I ara que queda enrera
aquella drecera
per on vam passar,
no, no vull recordar
ni la teva imatge
ni les teves mans.
No, no em puc aturar
i mirar la vida
des del finestral.
Irene
No, I have never wanted to paint
your long hair
nor your hands.
Nor your body, which I have surrounded
with waves I stole
from the open sea.
No, I have never wanted to paint
this serene
awakening, freed.
Nor the first bird song
that the wind brings us
before goodbye.
And now that time takes me away
and you close the door
through which I entered,
no, I don't want to remember
neither your image
nor your hands,
No, I can't stop
and look at life
from the window.
No, I don't want to step on
leaves that remind me
of your walk.
No, I don't want to return
to the path that leads me
to your home.
And now that behind us
lies that shortcut
we once took,
no, I don't want to remember
neither your image
nor your hands.
No, I can't stop
and look at life
from the window.