The poet listens to the shadows of the sunset in Long Island and feels sorrow for the future he sees unfolding. While it is called the New World, closing his eyes brings a cold cloud of history. It is raining, soaking the verses he writes in a house in ruins. The ocean holds the homeland of pain, and he can hear the drums of victory that silence those in exile. This is the future he envisions - armies advancing and fire consuming while innocence is destroyed. Though he listens, his voice does not join the children's songs in the foreign land of happiness. The future is an afternoon of rain spilled into the sea, a stalking shadow over names and songs, and his mother
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Original Title
Antonio Machado Listens to the Shadows of the Sunset in Long Island
The poet listens to the shadows of the sunset in Long Island and feels sorrow for the future he sees unfolding. While it is called the New World, closing his eyes brings a cold cloud of history. It is raining, soaking the verses he writes in a house in ruins. The ocean holds the homeland of pain, and he can hear the drums of victory that silence those in exile. This is the future he envisions - armies advancing and fire consuming while innocence is destroyed. Though he listens, his voice does not join the children's songs in the foreign land of happiness. The future is an afternoon of rain spilled into the sea, a stalking shadow over names and songs, and his mother
The poet listens to the shadows of the sunset in Long Island and feels sorrow for the future he sees unfolding. While it is called the New World, closing his eyes brings a cold cloud of history. It is raining, soaking the verses he writes in a house in ruins. The ocean holds the homeland of pain, and he can hear the drums of victory that silence those in exile. This is the future he envisions - armies advancing and fire consuming while innocence is destroyed. Though he listens, his voice does not join the children's songs in the foreign land of happiness. The future is an afternoon of rain spilled into the sea, a stalking shadow over names and songs, and his mother
Island Launch Audio in a New Window BY FER NAN DO V ALVE RD E TRANSLATED BY C AR OLYN FO RC HÉ
They call you the New World
but I close my eyes and the cold is a cloud that envelopes history.
Sorrow is ancient.
It’s raining. It rains on every word and on the verses that I write.
These blue days and this childhood sun are the rain soaking a house in ruins.
The ocean is the homeland of pain.
I can hear the drums of victory
that silence the night of those in exile.
I can hear the clouds floating past,
the ocean currents and the footsteps of the young clambering over the weeping piers.
This is the future,
to contemplate how the armies advance, how fire devours lips and clouds in a twilight of pulpits and the blood of innocents, clean and clear blood that once was love and lightning.
I can listen, but it’s no use,
my voice does not join with the children’s singing nor the dawn surrounding the foreign country of happiness.
This is the future,
an afternoon of rain spilled into the sea, a shadow that stalks the names and songs, the face of my mother under the barren land. Translated from the Spanish
The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale (Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, Helen of Troy and Other Poems, Rivers to the Sea, Love Songs, and Flame and Shadow)