Llueve

Lluvia

Bruscamente la tarde se ha aclarado

Porque ya cae la lluvia minuciosa.

Cae o cayó. La lluvia es una cosa

Que sin duda sucede en el pasado.

Quien la oye caer ha recobrado

El tiempo en que la suerte venturosa

Le reveló una flor llamada rosa

Y el curioso color del colorado.

Esta lluvia que ciega los cristales

Alegrará en perdidos arrabales

Las negras uvas de una parra en cierto

Patio que ya no existe. La mojada

Tarde me trae la voz, la voz deseada,

De mi padre que vuelve y que no ha muerto.

Rain

The afternoon has brightened up at last

For rain is falling, sudden and minute.

Falling or fallen. There is no dispute:

Rain is a thing that happens in the past.

Who hears it fall retrieves a time that fled

When an uncanny windfall could disclose

To him a flower by the name of rose

And the perplexing redness of its red.

Falling until it blinds each windowpane

Out in a lost suburbia this rain

Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside

A certain patio that is no more.

A longed-awaited voice through the downpour

Is from my father. He has never died.

By Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

by Andre Kertesz



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