Waterfall
(or upon considering those who, young and vigorous, grow old and die)
Cascada serena,
Cautiva de pena
y meláncolia,
Distante y fría,
Caudal de pureza
cristal de tristeza.
Such is this ephemeral veil that,
crashing from the mountain,
roars and mingles foam
like silver rings and,
bound in nature’s secret tome,
still speaks, though mute,
from hidden shelves of memory’s room.
These are the rivulets that flow,
embracing rocks which scarce impede
the water’s constant progress to the sea,
where it, too, shall peacefully fold
forever into the waves.
I wrote this poem, sitting on a rock in El Bolsón, Argentina, engulfed in the crashing fury of a waterfall.
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