Translation:The Traveler

by Antonio Machado

For works with similar titles, see The Traveler.

 

He’s in the dark familiar room,
and he’s between us, the dear brother
whom we saw, in the clear day of childhood’s sleep,
leaving for a distant land.
  Now his temples are covered in silver,
a gray lock over his worried brow,
and the cold angst of his glance
reveals an almost-absent soul.
  The autumnal treetops shed their crowns
in the withered old park.
You can see them in the evening,
behind the damp windows, and in the depth of the mirror.
  The brother’s face brightens
softly. Is it the flowery, golden disappointments
of the declining day?
Or the longing for a new life in new years?
   Will he mourn his lost youth,
long left–that poor wolf–for dead?
  Does the white never-lived youth fear
that it must sing at his door?
  Does it smile at the golden sun
of the earth of a dream never found;
and does it see its ship cleaving the sonorous sea,
it sails bursting with light and wind?
  He has seen the yellow autumn leaves turning,
the fragrant eucalyptus leaves, the rose bushes
showing once again their white roses...
   And this pain that yearns for or distrusts
the trembling of the tear held back,
and the remains of the virile hypocrisy
engraves itself in the pallid face.
  The stern portrait still lightens
up the wall. We make small talk.
The tick-tock of the clock strikes through
the sadness of our home. We all become silent.