Poem
Nicolás Suescún
THE TIME MACHINE
The clock has lost its handsand man marks time with his,
always turning around on his own axle,
noisy voyager of space,
that vast silence
unbroken by his voice or his cries
or his erratic passage through the world,
the ungratefulness of a prodigal son
who never returns,
till the hour of his death,
to the great Mother Earth who gave him life.
The clock has lost its hands
and man marks time with his.
Máquina de tiempo
Máquina de tiempo
Ha perdido sus manos el relojy el hombre marca el tiempo con las suyas,
siempre girando sobre su propio eje,
ruidoso viajero del espacio,
ese vasto silencio
que no rompen ni su voz ni los gritos,
o su neurótico paso por la tierra,
su ingratitud de hijo pródigo que jamás retorna,
hasta que suene la hora de su muerte,
a la gran Madre Tierra que le dio la vida.
Ha perdido sus manos el reloj
y el hombre marca el tiempo con las suyas.
Poems
Poems of Nicolás Suescún
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THE TIME MACHINE
The clock has lost its handsand man marks time with his,
always turning around on his own axle,
noisy voyager of space,
that vast silence
unbroken by his voice or his cries
or his erratic passage through the world,
the ungratefulness of a prodigal son
who never returns,
till the hour of his death,
to the great Mother Earth who gave him life.
The clock has lost its hands
and man marks time with his.
THE TIME MACHINE
The clock has lost its handsand man marks time with his,
always turning around on his own axle,
noisy voyager of space,
that vast silence
unbroken by his voice or his cries
or his erratic passage through the world,
the ungratefulness of a prodigal son
who never returns,
till the hour of his death,
to the great Mother Earth who gave him life.
The clock has lost its hands
and man marks time with his.
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